


A Simple Love With A Complex Touch

by nothinbuttherain



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Torture, Violence, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:43:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1407028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothinbuttherain/pseuds/nothinbuttherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>May and Ward are forced to confront personal and professional demons after nearly losing their lives to the job that brought them together and ultimately tore them apart. While trying to deal with what's happened they find that the only ones able to offer them comfort are each other and are drawn together once more.  Set post 1x15 but not entirely in keeping with current canon. Rating for content in later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Turning Screws

Turning Screws

She stood up abruptly. Without thought. On impulse. Which irritated her in itself. But her muscles were clenching almost painfully. Her body shaking. She forced herself to stand still. Taking a deep breath and settling herself. Able to feel the plane travelling smoothly beneath her feet. Closing her eyes. Rolling her neck and her shoulders. Slowly attempting to work out the knots and kinks that had formed in her taut body. She swallowed hard. Letting her eyes open again. The cloudless black abyss beyond the thick windshield passing interminably in front of her eyes for a few moments as she calmed herself. 

Nodding firmly she turned. Deciding to let The Bus fly itself for a little while she slipped out to stretch her legs and her body that had seized up after so long trapped in the confines of the chair. 

Usually she had no problem with small spaces like the cockpit or her bunk. Usually she welcomed them and savoured them. There was a comfort and a certainty to be found in smaller spaces that couldn’t be found in more open locations. Where threats could hide, hidden and concealed from her. Smaller spaces were personal. There was an intimacy to them that she indulged in. They were hers. She could be alone with them. And relaxed with them. 

But tonight. Tonight she couldn’t settle. The bed that she slept in each night felt alien and cold. The things she usually welcomed about it haunted her. She felt suffocated. And trapped. The shadows that played across the walls solidifying. The solitude she attempted to find behind her eyes bringing her no solace. 

In the end she had given up. And retreated to the cockpit. The only part of this plane that was truly hers. The only part she knew better than anyone, better even than Coulson. Where each button and switch was perfectly tuned to her trained fingers. She could play this plane like an instrument. It was hers to control and command. Machines were reliable. Machines did as they were told. As they were programmed to do. This little space reassured her. It was the place she went when all else failed. And tonight it too had failed her.  
She slid open the door and stepped out into the little seating area beyond. It was cool. And dark. And quiet. And it was only now she realised how stifling the little cockpit had been. Only realised it as her feverish skin cooled slightly on the fresh, soothing air that whispered over her skin. 

She closed her eyes quietly. Inhaling deeply. The soft air cooling her napalm lungs and making her shiver in relief. She felt her body unwind. And uncoil. Like a harsh wave that had devastated a beach as it crashed over its surface now receding back where it belonged. Soothing and calming in the process.  
Vicious feeling ripped through her body. Causing every muscle she possessed tense and ready itself for an attack she knew wasn’t coming. But her feet had slipped into stance, her hands were clenched in tight fists, her eyes snapping open and staring alertly around the room, emotion and shock blurring over her and blinding her as she choked for air. Cursing herself. Her vulnerability. Her humanity. Her weakness. 

If it had been real. If in that moment there had been a threat. She would have succumbed to it. And she would be dead. She had learned to categorise events in that way a long time ago. It had saved her life too many times in the field. And now it ruled her life. She had taken herself away from combat. She had found herself a quaint little office. And some simple work to keep her attentions since that mission. She had stripped everything from herself that could have reminded her of what she was. The duties. The training. The ranks. The titles. The accursed name that was still bandied around the academy with too much ease and too little understanding. Everything she could. But however long it had been. And however hard she had tried. She had never been able to strip the soldier from her soul. It had been there for some time now. And it was in no hurry to leave.  
She lashed out. Control coming from instinct and training. The uncharacteristic violence coming from impulse and emotion. Her hand, clenched into a tight, precise fist, colliding sharply with the wall and jarring her back to herself as she doubled over. Her hand flattening against it. Her palm exposed from her fist, pressing against the surface, keeping her on her feet as pain lanced through her body without warning. 

“May?” 

The voice behind her was gentle; as nonintrusive and unassuming as it could be in the circumstances. But it was his voice. And that changed the circumstances entirely. He was the last person she had expected to be there. And the last one she wanted. Because her body reacted to the sound of her name falling from his lips, as it so often had. Anticipation and apprehension, relief and tension, calm and anger, desire and regret blending together in her at once. Perfectly defining their relationship as it had been. A balancing act of opposing thoughts and wants and desires. Simplicity and complexity bound up in a tangled equilibrium. That had eventually lost its centre and crumbled.  
She took a deep breath, instinctively having tracked his footsteps behind her, standing himself, coincidentally or intentionally, it was not important, in front of the cockpit door, barring her exit path that way leaving her with only one option. She pushed herself from the wall and turned back, making to push deeper into the plane and back to her bunk. Whether she would sleep or not. She did not care. She would not be with him. That was all that mattered to her in that moment. 

“May,” he said quietly once more, seeing her beginning to walk away from him and catching himself, murmuring, “Look, I just want to talk, I-“ he broke off, and that alone almost made her turn back to him, but then he called her name again. “May!” Something snapping in his voice. Concern. And desperation. Neither of which she could stomach. 

“Melinda.” 

The word fell softly from his tongue. Perfectly weighted and considered. And she had already turned to him, a fleeting burn of anger causing her to move without thinking. There was no satisfaction in his eyes when they met hers, only the worry she had detected in his tone earlier. 

“Don’t.” She told him flatly, struggling to keep her voice devoid of emotion when irrational anger and irritation were rippling through her. 

Don’t call her that. Don’t conjure up what it implied. Intimacy. Understanding. Empathy. Don’t pity her. Don’t worry for her. Don’t think to be her salvation. Her knight in shining armour. Don’t care enough to try. 

“You’re bleeding.” He murmured softly as she turned her back on him again. 

He took a guarded step towards her. She paused. Closing her eyes and sighing. Recognising the hot sensation, as though the skin on her back was melting, raw and burning, confirming his quiet statement. She tensed for a moment then took another step forward. Another step away from him, saying calmly. 

“It’ll stop.” 

“You’re hurt.” He told her stubbornly, pressing forwards again, as she knew he would. 

She paused again. Waiting until she heard his footsteps stop a few feet from her before she considered walking forwards again. Telling him carefully, her voice tensing ever so slightly, despite her best efforts. 

“I’ll be fine.” 

Her body chose to betray her words then as pain shivered through her wounds without warning and she instinctively reached out to stop herself from falling, slipping slightly in her efforts to find something solid to brace herself against. 

“May.” He murmured again, crossing the distance between them to stand by her side, placing a gentle hand on her waist, attempting to support her.

She straightened herself and turned to him before flatly commanding, “Stop.”

He released her and she turned back to leave him again. He almost let her go. But he couldn’t. He had never been able to. Not like this. Not at least without trying.

“Let me help you.” He whispered quietly. His tone was faintly urgent. But there was no pleading or begging in his tone. Something he knew her only response to would be rejection. He had to play to her common sense. And common sense told her that she was in a bad way, knowing that she couldn’t help herself, and he was offering. 

“Why?” she asked him. Stopping again. And cursing herself for continually reacting to his soft words. For not simply slipping off somewhere quiet and lonely and finding a way to tend to herself. 

“Because you need help.” He told her, confused by this question, sure she must have meant something else and adding without thinking, “And because I care about you.” He caught himself, wincing and closing his eyes at his last words, wishing they hadn’t slipped out. 

Her body hardened against him. She watched him flatly for a moment before turning her back on him again and coldly informing the empty corridor in front of her, “I told you we were done.” She then proceeded to walk in to it, her steps fast and measured her ears growing deaf to his voice behind her, even though he had not spoken yet, growing deaf to the idea of the words on his lips, to the words in his head that she knew he wanted to say .

“So what?” he demanded, stepping swiftly alongside her, cutting across her and standing in front of her, surprising her. She stopped watching him flatly. He knew that even shaken and injured, she was more than capable of pushing past him and making him regret attempting to challenge her, but he had already done so, damage done, he told himself and the slight chance his boldness had rewarded him with was slipping away remarkably quickly as her eyes darkened again and her jaw began to set stubbornly. He murmured quickly to her, “So we’re done. You ended it. I accepted it. That was the end of it, right?” he asked her flatly. She stared at him coldly, not moving to push against him yet, but nowhere near backing down, “We’re not together anymore. We’re not having sex anymore.” He reminded her bluntly, “So what, May? What does that mean? That I can’t, I can’t touch you anymore? I can’t look at you anymore? I can’t care about you-“

“No.” She interrupted curtly. Swallowing hard her voice shaking slightly with an emotion that neither of them could place. A complicated tangle of anger and irritation and pain and something deeper, her eyes meeting his out of stubbornness and little else.

“You said I didn’t hurt you.” He reminded her softly. 

“You didn’t.” She broke in harshly. 

“Didn’t? Or didn’t have to?” he asked, his temper flaring faintly at her continued resistance, the colour beginning to drain from her cheeks, adrenaline starting to trickle into her veins to keep her standing, “You seem to be doing that just fine on your own.” He told her. 

She said nothing. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath to steady herself, her hand placed quietly against the wall again while she gathered herself. He sighed and reached out to her again. 

“Just go.” She told him coldly. Her eyes meeting his once more to glare at him flatly. 

He hesitated, turning away then breaching back to her shaking his head and hissing, “Melinda.” That earned him another sharp glare, which he ignored, breathing softly, “You have to, you have to let me in.” He told her flatly, “You have to....What happened on that op-“ 

“Was neither your fault nor your concern.” She broke in calmly.  
“You are.” He murmured quietly. 

She closed her eyes. He meant well. She knew that. But he was going too far. Again. They were going too far again. 

“I shouldn’t be.” She told him coldly, not turning to look at him this time, the muscles in her back rippling and tensing as she stood straight and taut. “You-“ 

“You’re a part of this team, May.” He told her firmly, not going to let this drop, his eyes raking over her back, picking out the faint spots of red on the thin white vest top that he recognised as the kind she slept in. He had noticed the little patches of blood a few minutes ago, tiny dots that he only noticed because of the stark contrast between the scarlet colour and the clear white of her top, but the little drops had blossomed into larger patches and that blood loss on top of everything else was beginning to take its toll he was sure. And so he pushed. Harder than she wanted. Harder than either of them were comfortable with. Harder than he probably should have. But he pushed. For her. “My team.” He reminded her softly, “Which makes you my concern.” 

She didn’t turn to tell him no. And she didn’t stubbornly continue down the corridor. She waited. Letting the silence he had left for her answer stretch. She didn’t want his help. She didn’t want his hands on her body again because it would confuse things. Whatever his purpose or intentions it would confuse things. And things were confused enough. Far beyond what she had ever expected or intended from them. But maybe she needed it. 

She sighed, swaying lightly on the spot, pitching forwards slightly but refusing to take the step. He decided to take her silence and stillness as acceptance and walked towards her again, close enough to easily touch her but refraining from doing so until she gave him permission, telling her softly, “Now will you please sit down?” she shivered and he added wryly, “Before you fall down.” She shuddered again, her resolve crumbling, beginning to feel dizzy, blood loss combining with an adrenaline withdrawal making her wonder how she was still on her feet. Something he had noticed as well without her advertising it.

“Come on.” He coaxed quietly, his hand lightly brushing against her shoulder, barely touching her, but touching her enough. A test; to see if she would allow the contact. She did. He placed his hand more firmly on her upper arm, making to draw her back into the little seating area as he said, “You’re many things, May. Stupid isn’t one of them. You need medical attention. Now. You know that.” 

She knew that. The fact that he knew it was the biggest problem. But she couldn’t ignore this any longer. And she would rather reluctantly agree with his persistence than pass out on him, something that was looking increasingly likely the longer she spent on her feet, bleeding. She slid herself from his grip and walked back to the little cluster of chairs in the middle of the room, her steps precise and overly controlled as she slowly lowered herself into a chair, trying not to show too much relief, closing her eyes and releasing the breath that had been pent up in her chest. 

He sighed and padded over to her, and sat down on the chair beside her. She shifted uncomfortably then decided to just get this over with and made to pull the top over her head but she found his hand on her wrist, “Wait.” He commanded firmly. She paused and turned to look over her shoulder at him. He released her cautiously, still insisting that she stop what she was doing and told her softly, “I’m going to find a med kit and some scissors.” 

She raised her eyebrows, wordlessly enquiring if that was really necessary. “You used some of that surgical sealing gel Coulson’s always pushing?” he asked flatly. She nodded in confirmation, “Yeah, no wonder you’re bleeding, damn stuff never works properly.” He growled irritably. The corners of her mouth twitched at their shared distaste and he went on, “But if you pull that shirt over your head and it catches a loose part of that gel, it’ll take off half the skin on your back so just, a little patience, please? I don’t want to do anymore damage until I know what I’m doing with, OK?” He asked, pausing and waiting for her consent. 

She irritably jerked her head towards a cabinet a few feet from where they were sitting and he nodded in understanding. Slipping from the chair and crouching down to retrieve what he needed. He came back to her and sat down beside her, carefully positioned so that he could reach all of her with ease. 

“Hold still.” He instructed gently. He carefully slid the scissors from the bottom of her shirt, following her spine up the middle, taking care to hold the fabric away from her skin. He hissed faintly as he gently peeled the two halves of her top away from each other, making her wince and tense faintly as the thin fabric caught on blood and raw skin, reluctant to leave it. 

“Jesus May, what did you do?” he whispered quietly to her, his fingers slipping the slit halves of her top down her sides with surprising delicacy, having her hold them and stopping them from interfering with the wounds again. She declined to give him an answer to this question and he shook his head, sighing heavily as he told her, “Well whatever it was you’ve managed to open up...Yep, just about every one of these wounds, well done.” 

He took several deep breaths as she ignored this last barbed comment, as he had expected she would. He grimaced before telling her wryly, “This might be easier if you lie down.” He jerked his head towards the table in front of them. She glared at him flatly as he cleared the few papers that were on it and wiped it down for her, looking at her expectantly. “Look,” he told her flatly, “It’s either this, or if you want I can carry you down to sickbay, find Simmons, wake her up and-“

She snarled at him, knowing that she wouldn’t make it consciously down to sickbay, and not wanting to involve any more people than she had to. Something he knew very well she was sure. She slid off of the chair and lay on her front on the table, allowing him to slip off a cushion from the chair and place it under her head. 

He took a deep breath and sank onto his knees beside her, taking a moment to consider what he had to work with. “I’m going to have to clean out the gel first. It hasn’t set properly so it’s no use to anyone. I’m sure Simmons told you to keep still.” He added disapprovingly. She twisted round to glare at him and he flushed, “Right, not helpful, got it.” He muttered, digging through the med kit. “This might hurt a bit.” He warned her, do you want a local anaesth-“He broke off, shaking his head at the sight of her expression, muttering, “Never mind.” 

“Alright, this is going to take a while.” He told her quietly, soaking a cloth in surgical disinfectant, “Just, try not to move, OK?” he instructed quietly. 

She nodded in agreement, allowing him to proceed and burying her face in the pillow in front of her, the darkness comforting somehow. 

“I’ll be as gentle as I can be.” He told her trying to reassure her as he felt her tense faintly beneath his touch. 

She nodded again, not speaking or looking at him. 

A part of her resented him for this. It was just as well that he had been there on one hand. This was not something she could have done by herself, none of the wounds were in place that it was possible for her to reach them herself. Had she been alone up here, she may not have noticed until it was too late, and by the time someone found her she could have been in a far worse state than she was now. But she resented that it had been him that had found her. She resented the fact that he had easily seen through her protests; that he had known she was hurt and needed help even before he had seen the blood on her back. Resented how easy it had been for him to hit nerves he knew she disliked and made it impossible for her to refuse him without descending to childish stupidity.

And she resented his touch. 

Because she felt the way she knew she would feel from the second he had offered to help her. Her body missed him. Her body missed his touch. His warmth. His surprising tenderness. His companionship. And she missed him too. Something she was being forced to admit to herself. This was the closest they had willingly been in a long time. And there was an undeniable intimacy to what he was doing. To what she was allowing him to do. A level of trust had to be extended. A closeness that she couldn’t get away from, however hard she tried. She trusted him. And he cared for her. And nothing had changed. 

Had it been anyone else it wouldn’t have mattered. What he had said would have applied. They were a team. She was a part of that team. And they took care of their own. But because of where they had been, what had happened between them in the past changed this. Their relationship had been strained since she had told them they were done. It should have been a simple break. An end of them sleeping together. A return to being colleagues. Friends. And whatever else they had been before. But it wasn’t.  
There was tension. They had hidden it as best they could but it was there. Resentment. Bitterness. And a pressure that closed around them both when they were together, particularly when they were alone. Something they had not allowed to happen all too often. Until that op. Though that had been Coulson’s idea. And all it had done was wind them tighter and tighter. They worked together because they had to. They fed off each other’s instincts and actions and they got the job done as they had been trained to do. But there was no sense of relief. No sense of accomplishment. Only taut strain. 

There had been a sense of discomfort. And disruption. A constant sense of turning screws and fraying tempers. Emotion. Feeling. Something that shouldn’t be there. It had been physical. It had been purely physical. Until it hadn’t been. She still wasn’t sure when that had happened. When the lines had become blurred between physical closeness and emotional intimacy. Whether it had been while they were sleeping together or after. She was inclined to tend towards the latter. The realisation at least, had only come then.  
The relationship had been simple. The concept had been simple. They had both agreed on limits. On terms. On things that needed to be agreed on if it was going to work. And it had. Until it hadn’t. Because however simple the set-up, the people were complex. And it was never going to be allowed to stay simple. It was never going to be allowed to be easy. Nothing ever was. 

And the only time she had felt at ease with him in weeks was now. The tension finally snapped as they both gave up with the exhausting parameters and controls they had placed upon themselves and slipped back together. It felt like two magnets resisting each other and pulling further and further away before being unable to resist anymore, inexorably drawn back together. And now stable. Breathing again. 

She hissed suddenly in pain, jerked out of her reverie as his hand slipped and caught on the raw edges of one of the wounds on her back making her eyes water instinctively.  
“Sorry.” He murmured, quickly withdrawing his hands from her body, noting that they were shaking harshly, “Sorry, I’m just....Maybe I should have asked Simmons.” He told her nervously, only half joking. 

She glanced round at him, waiting until his eyes met hers, twitchy and uncertain, softening slightly as she instructed quietly, “Take a breath. Relax. Do what needs to be done.”  
He did as he was told as she settled back down and groaned slightly, the action of twisting round to look at him having flared up her injuries and made them burn faintly from the strain on her muscles. His hands steadied faintly and he returned to carefully cleaning out her wounds, unable to stop himself from murmuring faintly,  
“Is that it, May? Is that your secret? Is that how you do this?” 

“What?” she enquired flatly, sensing his discomfort, his need to talk, his need for reassurance, for something, to reach out to something and steady himself, deciding to give him that much at least. 

“Live.” He whispered faintly, “Live like, like this, I...” he trailed off, focussing on what he was doing for a moment, discarding another cloth and inspecting his handiwork for any leftover traces of the gel before confessing, his voice low and taut, “I can’t get it out of my head, May. I just...Every time I close my eyes I see it, I feel it. All over again. It’s like, like I’ve lived that part of my life a hundred times over. It’s like I’ve been reduced to nothing but that moment. That’s all I am. All I’ll ever be. That’s...The only thing that’s ever happened to me. The only memory I have. The only feeling I’ve ever felt. Pain. Pain and helplessness and...Every time I stop for a second, to just, to just breathe, I...How are you doing this, May? How are you not falling apart how are you...” he trailed off, not sure what to say, closing his eyes and soaking another cloth. 

“Not sleeping?” she murmured, her tone softening considerably, turning back to look at him again, allowing their eyes to tentatively meet as she spoke.  
He froze, mouthing soundlessly at her, closing his eyes and murmuring, clearly uncomfortable, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry you don’t want to talk about this, I-“  
“Do you?” she interrupted flatly but not unkindly. 

“I don’t know.” He told her softly, shaking his head, taking his time with her for a moment before saying without really thinking, the words falling from his lips in a hitched breath, “I don’t know what to say, I don’t know if I can say it...” he trailed off. 

“You can.” She told him softly. Pausing before murmuring, “If you need to.”

“I just...That op we had in Ireland, with the berserker staff, you remember?” he asked, gazing down at her, for recognition, for reassurance and permission to go on, which she gave in a quiet nod, ”I asked you how you dealt with it and you told me that you saw it every day.” He murmured, forcing his voice to remain steady, brushing his fingers lightly over her back. 

“I remember.” She murmured quietly. 

“How do you, how do you do that? How do you handle the pain? I...I’ve spent my entire life burying those kinds of memories. Things I don’t want to think about and you...You live with them every day.” 

“Maybe that’s where you’re going wrong.” She murmured.

“I couldn’t do it, May. It would...” he told her, quietly shaking his head , closing his eyes, “There would be nothing of me if I tried to live like that.” 

“You think it would destroy you?” she murmured, not phrasing it as a question but giving him the opportunity to answer. 

“I know it would. I know my limits.” He told her softly. 

“Do you know yourself?” she asked him pointedly, her voice low and soft. 

“What do you- Of course I do-“He began flatly, staring at her in surprise. 

“You spend your life lying to yourself.” She told him curtly, pushing herself up with difficulty and twisting round to look at him as she spoke, “Repressing. Censoring. Editing the parts of yourself that you can’t, or don’t want to deal with. You’re destroying yourself either way.” She paused a moment before going on, her voice dropping, quietening as she murmured, “I’ve lost a lot of things to this job, Ward. Blood. Sweat. Time...” she hesitated, her eyes dropping before she whispered softly, “The thing I regret losing the most is myself.”


	2. Stitch

Stitch

He stared at her for a moment, surprised by her voluntarily sharing anything evenly remotely personal with him. He felt as though he was seeing more of her now, in that one little statement than he ever had when they had been in bed together.

She only ever revealed to him what she had to. And when they slept together that had been her body, her skin. Her soul had never strayed into her eyes, however hot and however hungry. She hid that part of herself. She separated everything out. She could be close to him, as intimate with him as two people could get, wrapped up with him in sheets and sweat and skin and still he could know nothing of who she was.

When she slipped away from him and sat quietly on the edge of the bed, calming herself, needs met, her eyes that had been filled with fire and heat only a second before, calm and clear and empty once more. He would have more luck getting Coulson's life story from Lola than he would drawing intimacy and secrets from Melinda May.

"How did you get back?" he asked her quietly once he had shaken the shock of her words.

"I didn't." She told him flatly, wincing slightly and lying flat again.

"I just..." he withdrew again, replacing the curved needle in the kit again as his hands shook once more. He braced himself against the table, his hands curling around the edges, fingers digging in to the wood, the tips turning white and numb as he shuddered, his head bowed, eyes closed as he confessed with difficulty, "I feel guilty." He glanced down at the needle again and then his hands still secured firmly on the edge of the table and decided that he didn't trust himself with stitching her up now. At least not until he had said what he needed to say to her. What he should have said as soon as they got her out, "I shouldn't, I shouldn't have let them...Let them do this to you." He murmured, gesturing towards her injuries, barely able to look at her, his stomach twisting.

"You weren't in any position to stop them, Ward." She told him, almost gently, "Any more than I was."

"I could have-" He began, after a moment's hesitation, picking up the needle again, deciding that if he couldn't help her then, he could help her now, slowly beginning to close up the cuts, the old habit and rhythm of the stitching returning to him.

"No." She told him harshly, her voice cracking, turning sharply to glare at him as she said pointedly, "You couldn't."

"I, they could have, May they could have killed you." He reminded her hoarsely, his hands clenching into fists, his body trembling with the effort of controlling himself as he snarled, "I did nothing and they could have killed you because of-"

"They could." She told him, bluntly "They didn't."

"That, that doesn't make this all ok, May." He told her shortly, cutting himself off as she winced faintly as he tugged the suture too hard, breaking it and her skin. "Sorry." He muttered, "I'm sorry, I-"

"I know." She murmured softly, her tone reassuring, his eyes meeting hers again as she glanced back round at him, "You have to stop being sorry." She told him firmly, "You have to stop being guilty. You have to stop blaming yourself."

"I can't, May," he told her despairingly, "I-"

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, ignoring her instinct and her impulsiveness then making a firm decision and reached round to quietly take his hand, her fingers warm and soft, tenderly slipping over his, linking with them and steadying him, calming him.

Feeling rushed through him and he glanced at her in surprise. This was the first deliberate contact she had made with him in a long time, too long. Warmth radiated from her touch and spread through him, soothing and reassuring, as though there was a sedative in her fingertips, he curled his palm around the tips of her fingers, his thumb gently stroking her hand, letting her know she was acknowledged and appreciated.

"You have to." She murmured evenly, her fingers squeezing faintly in response to him as she went on, "I told you the same thing before. When Skye was shot. It wasn't your fault. The one to blame, the only one to blame. Is the one that pulled the trigger."

"I as good as-" He protested, closing his eyes and pulling his hand from her.

To his surprise, she reached back out and stopped him from withdrawing from her, her eyes over-bright and fierce when they met his, "No. You didn't." She told him, her voice soft and controlled. "Because you wouldn't have." She hesitated for a moment, watching him, her fingers tightening around his hand, considering the wisdom of her next words, closing her eyes, her body slumping slightly, her first concession to weakness, "What did you tell me?" she asked him, her voice barely over a whisper, yet he caught every word, "When we started sleeping together."

"That I didn't want to hurt you." He murmured softly, his fingers still quietly stroking her skin, the repetitive motion somehow comforting.

"And I told you that that was never going to be a risk with me." She murmured, her voice taut from the effort of keeping it level and controlled, "I told you that you couldn't." She hesitated before confessing in an undertone, "Not, not because I couldn't be hurt but because I know that you're not capable of that." She told him, her voice somehow gentle despite the hard edges that were creeping in to it. Her eyes, wide and calm somehow dulling the effect and betraying the intention behind her words. "You're not capable of hurting me, Ward." She told him gently, closing her eyes quietly, her head bowed, her thick black hair covering her face, shielding her from him, "You couldn't do what they did. You couldn't do anything like that. Not to me." She told him softly, "I know that. You know that."

"May, I-" He began, his hand holding on to hers harder than ever, even as he shrunk from her, uncertain, unconvinced.

"I don't blame you for what happened. You can't either." She told him firmly, still making the effort to keep her voice soft and comforting. She allowed a faint smirk to tug at the corners of her lips for a moment as she informed with her usual flat irony, "If I bleed to death on this table because of your daydreaming that I will blame you for, however."

He managed a weak smile in return and squeezed her hand once more before gently releasing it and returning to the needle he had left in the kidney dish, carefully slipping back into the rhythm and pattern as he began to close her wounds, gently tugging the edges together and sealing them with a stitch. He watched his hands work for a while, gauging her reactions as she shifted almost imperceptibly for a while, learning how long to give her before proceeding. The answer was generally 'not long', finding her getting irritable the longer he waited and hesitated.

After a while and several failed attempts that she appeared not to notice, he asked quietly, his throat dry, "You can't sleep?" his voice was casual. Too much so.

"No." She told him smoothly, not looking up at him, keeping her face pressed against the pillow, not wanting to twist around and dislodge his stitching, his smooth rhythm uninterrupted.

"I...Why not?" he asked her faintly, quietly adding another stitch to the long, even rows while waiting for her answer.

She considered him for a moment, debating with herself why he was asking and what he hoped to get from this. She had learned already that he was not the type to pry, ask her questions about who she was, try and find a weakness, a chink in the armour, something he could use to get in. He was smarter and more intuitive than that. Her greatest weakness for her fear of not being accepted, and so that was exactly what he had given her. Flat, unconditional acceptance. He didn't ask for her past. He didn't ask for their future. He simply asked to exist in her present. And she let him. And remained firmly there. Asking nothing but the same from her in return.

And so it worked. And they accepted each other. They didn't test each other, or push limits. They balanced. Fire and ice. People of two extremes meeting in the middle somewhere, finding a strange equilibrium, neutralising the other, smoothing edges and settling each other. It was comfortable. And it was quiet. And calm. And it was exactly what they needed. A distraction. A release. Relief. They could be exactly what they were with each other, without having to pretend to be warmer or softer. Acceptance. Balance. They could relax in each other's company and take the sex, the companionship, whatever the other was willing to offer that night, and know when they could take what they needed, when they could ask without words for something, and when it would be granted.

A hard op. A trauma. Or just the cloying claustrophobia and loneliness that clung to everyone on this bus at some time or another was reason enough to seek each other out. They tended to be affected similarly by the same things, the same missions, the same circumstances, and often met halfway between each other's bunks, choosing silently where they would spend the rest of the night, knowing from the heat of their bodies and the sounds of screaming or silence that echoed through their heads what they needed.

It was physical. Whether it was sex or lying together on a shared bunk, the warmth and gentle pressure of their bodies close together reassuring, they soothed themselves and healed themselves by morning. They never tried to fix each other. To drag out flaws in long, circular talks. It was an option. Always. But an option that neither of them indulged. They were too headstrong, too stubborn, and too independent to ask or allow the other to repair them, or put them back together when they broke. To proud to let them even try. But the coming together, the mutual acceptance of physical support allowed them to acknowledge what they needed to do for themselves. The silent admittance to the other of not being entirely ok allowed them to fix themselves, and relax in the knowledge that the other was doing the same.

And then they could sleep. On nights when insomnia would have been almost paralysing. They could sleep. Together.

She knew what he wanted. She knew what he needed. However much they insisted that their relationship was purely physical. The intimacy that was conjured between them in the late dark nights was impossible to ignore. The way the other's eyes looked when they were stripped and lonely, admitting their flaws to themselves, hiding them as ever but not enough, it was impossible not to get a sense of the person they were with. It was impossible not to form some sort of emotional bond. Whether it was love or empathy or compassion neither of them could, or ever would, say. But it was something. And it was there. And she knew him because of it. And she knew what he needed.

"You have nightmares?" she asked softly. It was not a question. She knew. But a flat statement seemed too harsh, too likely to make him withdraw his tentative attempts at seeking help and guidance, from someone who had altogether too much experience with this.

She felt him tense faintly, tugging a little too tightly at his latest suture, making her muffle a wince in her pillow waiting for his answer, "Yes." He told her, knowing she knew already, "I, I know it's only been a day. Not even that. I'm exhausted. Stressed. Drained. Suffering from an adrenaline withdrawal. I, I get all of that. It's going to take time. I know that but I just...If I...If it doesn't..."

"It'll stop." She told him confidently. Her voice her own again. The voice that he expected, that they all expected when she spoke. Indifference. Confidence. Focus. Something that inspired trust and threatened disbelief. Something she had found useful in this line of work. Something that she found useful now. Because he didn't just need to hear this, he needed to believe it.

"Really?" he murmured, still sounding as though he daren't believe her, though it felt almost ridiculous not to.

"Really." She told him, suppressing a shiver that ran through her nerves at the knowledge of the flat lie she had told him. All that time. All those years since Bahrain and still. Still it haunted her. She couldn't tell him that. The truth wouldn't help him now. That truth wouldn't help anyone. That it hadn't eased. That the events still haunted the darkness of her dreams, her nightmares. That stalked through the shadows of her waking moments.

"In time." She told him, as she told herself. In those moments when time seemed inconsequential and almost non-existent. When it seemed like it would never pass again. Trapped in memories. In things that had already happened. In the promise that nothing would ever happen again if it didn't happen in those moments. Those moments that tormented her beyond any physical or mental torture that anyone else could ever have her suffer. Her own mind. Her own experience. Her own self persecuted her more than they ever could.

"Yeah..." he murmured, daring to believe her, leaving her with the hope that, had she had someone who had told her that it was going to be alright, that this torment would stop, that she would sleep again, that she would breathe again, that perhaps she might have done, or might still do. "Things are going to change now, aren't they? I, we can't just go back to the way things were." He told her quietly. Glancing back down at his stitches, tying off the last in the row, carefully testing and teasing the newly sealed rip to ensure that he was happy with his work, giving himself something else to focus on, making his question, something else that had been eating away at him for hours, seem almost casual and unimportant.

He wasn't sure what 'back' meant. If it was before they started sleeping together, before she had ended it, he just knew that they were different. That this was different. That they would never have shared this level of intimacy, and closeness, emotionally or physically had this not happened. He couldn't go back to something that he couldn't find anymore. He couldn't remember what they had been. He couldn't remember what they were going to be from that perspective. All he knew was what he was now, what they were now. And what they were was different. Something that not even she could cover and deny. Something he knew for that fact she wouldn't even attempt to do.

"No. We can't." She told him bluntly, confirming his thoughts. She surprised him however by adding, "Would you want to?"

"I don't know." He murmured. A part of him wanted to. Wanted to go back to that. Before they were sleeping together. While they were sleeping together. Even after. They had all been feelings he could comprehend. Lust. Desire. Bitterness. Flat, simple and upfront. Easy to understand, easier to deal with. Perfect, in short, for their relationship, if not always pleasant. This complex blend of the three, and of other things besides, he was struggling with, and he could see that she was too. And a part of him wanted easy and understandable. The bigger, better part of him knew that that was impossible. And he had learned not to wish for impossible differences to happen in his life since childhood.

"I still. I'm still me." He told her hesitantly, "I have to be and I, I still feel intact. Just about but I...I also feel like someone else. I feel different. I feel...I feel alive and dead all at once. Here and not here. Angry and calm. Whole and broken. Like...I feel like two different people. Two different perspectives on the same person, the same life. Just...Before and after shots. And I...I don't know which one I'm supposed to take. Which one I'm supposed to be. I don't know which one I am." He told her, closing his eyes for a moment, pausing.

"Both." She told him.

"What, how-" he began, confused.

"What happens to you today can't change what happened yesterday." She told him quietly, "The first time you killed someone on this job, the day before you were a S.H.I.E.L.D agent, the day after, you're still a S.H.I.E.L.D agent but you're also a killer. You're not two different people or two different things afterwards, you're still the same person, you've just...Changed. Or you're in the process of changing. And you need to understand how those two different perspectives fit together, how they change you, how you stay the same, how you fit what's happened with what's already been to figure out how you survive tomorrow."

"I guess that takes time too?" he clarified softly.

"Everything does." She agreed evenly.

And some things took more time than she was willing to give them. Healing. All this time. All those years. And she still hadn't healed. It had been taking too long. To marry the person she had been before Bahrain with the person she became after and make it work. So she had stopped waiting. Had stopped trying to heal. She had cut that part out of her and put it away. Ignored it. Pretended it didn't exist. And it had broken her. He didn't deserve that fate. She didn't want it for him. She didn't want it for anyone.

She still remembered the person she had been. But it was like remembering a friend who had died. The memories were tinged and tainted with the misery she knew would befall the innocence, forever trapped and never doomed to know what would happen. Naive. And happy. Wrapped up in a blissful ignorance.

No doubt the girl who had gone to Bahrain would not recognise the scarred, damaged woman who had left it. That Melinda May would not believe that this was what she would become. No doubt that was why whenever she looked in a mirror she barely recognised herself. Her shock the first time that had happened had dulled now. She expected it. The rejection. The horror. The sinking feeling in her stomach as she realised that each day only served to drag her further from what she had been. Her eyes. Cold. And flat. The warmth that she had always found in herself, the empathy and compassion that they had told her would make her an outstanding agent, the lies that she had swallowed were all gone. Nothing remained now but hardened truth. And the bitter truth hurt more than the blissful lies because at least the lies had given her something, instead of taking it away.

She accepted who she was. She accepted who she had been. But she couldn't accept them both as being her.

He nodded distractedly, focussing on tying off the ends of his last sutures, tugging at a few of them to ensure that they were set then glancing over her with general approval. He placed a gentle hand between her shoulder blades, taking care not to apply enough pressure to cause her discomfort but ensuring that she knew he was there and keeping her down as he said quietly,

"I think I'm done. These should hold better than Coulson's miracle cure, but you're still going to have to take it easy for a while, OK?" he told her severely, gazing down at her in disapproval, "Now just, hold still for a minute, I'm going to get some bandages, strap you up, give those cuts half a chance at healing."

He hovered over her for a minute to make sure that she wasn't going to sit up the second he left her. Returning he gently helped her up and steadied her for a moment before having her lift her arms and tenderly wrapping the thin strips of fabric around her chest. She glanced up towards the ceiling, not looking at him as he worked, ready for this to be over now, shivering faintly whenever his hands left her skin. He finished and checked the binds for a little longer than was necessary before making to withdraw, his body still pressed close to hers, almost too close. He placed his hand gently on her side, hesitating before glancing up at her and murmuring,

"Look at me." She closed her eyes, air slipping past her lips as she released it hopelessly, "Please look at me, Melinda." He murmured. The use of her name gave her no choice. She opened her eyes and met his with an intensity that would have startled him had he not been used to it. He tenderly placed his hand on her cheek, lightly caressing it, his gaze never flickering from hers, "You're not fine, May." He told her flatly, shaking his head and lowering his eyes for the first time, glancing back up at her again, in time to prevent her from turning away again, forcing her to look at him once more, "And that's...It's OK to not be OK." He told her gently, "To be scared. To be hurt. To ask for help. To accept it." He told her quietly, his voice low and sincere, his hand on her cheek burning, his skin almost feverish, "It's OK to be weak, to be flawed, to struggle, I, after what you've been through, no-one, no-one expects you to be bulletproof and invincible, May...It's OK to be human." He murmured, having leant in to her as he spoke, his forehead pressed against hers, his lips whispering so close to hers that she could feel his breath, hot and urgent and somehow reassuring, both hands now placed gently on her cheeks, his eyes closed.

She hesitated, allowing her eyes to gently open again. She leant in and quietly kissed his forehead and murmured, "Thank you." Before pulling away and standing, her hand trailing from his shoulder down his arm to his hand, her fingers lingering around his for a moment as she told him carefully, her voice returning to its usually clipped, control, "For your concern, Ward. But I'm fine."

She stepped delicately away from him, skirting around the table and slinking away from him before he could think of something to tell her to make her stay. He watched her, in faint disbelief, until she had disappeared around from his sight and he could no longer follow her near-silent footsteps down the corridor back to her cockpit.

He closed his eyes, sighing and pitching forwards, running his hands over his face and shaking his head. He was exhausted. And he had been so close with her. Too close to warrant him to try again. The cockpit door closed firmly behind him and he knew better than to try knocking on it. She wasn't in the mood for opening up any more than she already had. She wasn't in the mood for helping or for being helped. She was May again. The May everyone had come to expect her to be. She had given him a faint glimpse of someone else that night, when she put herself out to try and help him but she was done with that now. And she was done with him. Again.

She slipped into the cockpit, deliberately closing the door to tell him that enough was enough, she was done for the night. Her chest was stiff and sore where he had wound bandages around her cuts. He had taken rather a long time stitching her back together, he could and had worked faster than that in the past. But he had a lot on his mind. He was distracted. But she still couldn't shake the feeling that he had enjoyed the closeness as much as she had. The strange intimacy that the actions had allowed. Allowing them to be together, to touch each other again, to be close once more, almost as close as they once had been, and still be able to justify it to themselves.

But for the fact that she was thinking these things, she could justify it to herself. And now she couldn't. Now she was confused. And lonely. And hurt. Feelings that she had promised herself she would never get close to again.

It was just sex. Just sex. So why...How did it get so complicated. They were complicated people, that much was obvious. But they had simple needs. Simple needs that they were fulfilling for each other. Until...Until it had changed. Until everything had changed. And she still wasn't sure why. She still wasn't sure why she had ended things. She wasn't sure now how she was supposed to fix them. She wasn't sure that she wanted to.

She didn't. She couldn't. She had been down that path before and it had not led her to happiness. It was easier this way. It was so much easier. Was it? If she missed him. If she was denying herself for what, for feeling. She was overcomplicating things by avoiding them. She was attaching more emotion and more weight to them than there should be.

She dragged her fingers through her hair, frustrated.

She half-expected a knock at the door. Him seeking permission to enter. She half-hated herself for thinking that he would come crawling back to her so easily. When it came down to it, what did he have to come crawling back to? What had she given him? Other than physical intimacy and a dash of companionship when her ice heart allowed. That was what he thought of her after all. Beautiful. Strong. And cold. No-one wanted that from another person, from a lover, from a partner, from a friend. It was not something that someone would readily come back to. Cold burned, so it seemed, and it stung worse than fire.

She started pulling up stats for the bus, skimming over long lists of numbers she could have rattled off from memory. Everything was fine with the plane. She knew everything was fine with the plane. Everything was not fine with her. He had been right on that front. But she didn't know how to make herself fine. So she had to find something that was. Something she could control more easily than she could control herself right now.

She stayed for a while, checking things that didn't need to be checked, then checking again to be sure before she realised this was getting ridiculous. She had to sleep. Or she had to at least try. They would most likely be getting a new op tomorrow. And while Coulson would want to keep her back. The team needed her. She had a job to do. And she had to be able to get through it without collapsing from exhaustion, which was becoming an altogether too likely possibility.

She stood up, swaying faintly on the spot then slipped out of the cockpit. The little room beyond where Ward had patched her up was empty. He had cleared up and gone to bed a while ago. She felt bad about the way she had left that. She seemed to feel guilty whenever they ended a conversation these days. She either talked too much around him or not enough but she could never get it right so it seemed.

She sighed heavily, shaking her head and padding noiselessly through the plane, down the long, silent corridors to her bunk, sliding the door open and slipping inside, closing her eyes and then closing the door behind her.

The little cabin was cool and reassuring but after five minutes of lying on top of her bed it was stifling and suffocating. After spending several minutes tossing and turning she pulled a light silk bathrobe on over herself and found herself walking down the corridor.

She hesitated outside his room, her eyes closed, her hand raised, her body twisting back to the safety of her loneliness. She was about to follow it when she heard him cry out faintly from inside. Begging faintly for help. His subconscious calling out when the rest of him could not. Something she was altogether too familiar with and she froze. Her eyes closed tightly. As she steeled herself and sliding the door back. Going to him without thinking.

She sat cautiously on the end of his bed as he thrashed uncontrollably, placing one hand gently on chest, feeling him settle for a moment beneath her touch, then snap awake, seizing her wrist and twisting her down to him, breathing hard. She watched him, her eyes flat and calm in the darkness, waiting for the fear and paranoia to recede from his.

He released her gently and she straightened back up again, her eyes never leaving his. His hand slid back to her wrist, a gentler hold than before, that she allowed. He opened his mouth, struggling to find something to say. She shook her head, almost imperceptibly and he closed it, nodding silently. Understanding. She nodded back in return, curling her legs up onto the bed under her, tentatively lying on his chest. He watched her in silence for a moment then nodded quietly and placed a cautious arm around her shoulder, feeling her body gently rise and fall against him as she breathed, finally closing her eyes and settling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this was definitely written before the shocker of last night's episode (and is now definitely AU) and now I'm not quite sure what to do with it. I had planned to write out another few chapters but what with everything that's happened I'm worried I may have lost my audience and this fandom has kind of collectively lost it's taste for this ship. I don't know, would anyone like to see more? I will cater to your wishes as best I can :) And of course I'd love to know what you thought of this chapter, thank you all for reading :)


	3. The Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my plan for the rest of this fic was use the mission that brought them up to this point and go back to that and use that to flashback to little snippets of their relationship together that I wanted to look at and then bring it all full circle towards the end. Trigger warnings for torture and some fairly graphic stuff in later chapters, so yes, that's my little part of housekeeping in explaining what's going to happen from here on in (though this chapter is cuts of their mission and the present, just to get things going) thanks so much for all of your lovely comments, and of course for reading in the first place!

** Chapter 3  **

The Wolves

_She glanced between the two men as they crowded around her, watching the world slip away from under them as she guided the plane through the skies. Finally growing vaguely impatient with the intrusion and lack of explanation for it, she turned to Coulson and raised her eyebrows pointedly, silently asking him why on Earth he had felt the need to drag Ward into her cockpit after him._

_“We’ve been given a new assignment.” He told her quietly, jolting Ward out of his reverie as the sparks of conversation began to burst into being again._

_May could tell that whatever this new assignment was, he wasn’t happy about it. He wasn’t standing as straight as he usually did when taking commanding and giving out orders. And now that she looked at him properly, he was gaunt and drawn, dark black circles under his eyes matching his thunderous mood. And he wasn’t looking at either of them._

_“What?” Ward asked cautiously, also seeming to sense Coulson’s disapproval._

_“SHIELD gained intel on two sleeper agents within the centipede network. They’ve apprehended them and have decided to use them as a way for us to gain intimate access to the program.”_

_“They want to seed SHEILD agents on the inside? In the place of the sleepers?” Ward asked quietly._

_“Exactly.” Coulson muttered, rubbing his temples and looking less than impressed with this plan._

_“I’m up for it.” Ward told him flatly, glancing over at her for a moment, finding her expression flat and unhelpful for gauging how she felt about this, giving him nothing but his own instincts on it, “This is the best lead we’ve had in a long time. If we have a way in I say we take it.”_

_“Ordinarily I would agree with you.” Coulson told him tautly, “But this isn’t ordinarily. These people are incredibly organised, they know what they’re doing. They don’t make mistakes. Which is why we have no leads on them. We don’t know enough-“_

_“That’s exactly why we should do this.” Ward protested, cutting in firmly, “I’ve had ops with less intel than this.” He told him bluntly, “And I don’t get the impression that HQ are giving us much of a choice in the matter.”_

_“No.” Coulson muttered darkly, “No. They’re not. But I wanted you both made aware of the circumstances here before I throw you to the wolves.” He settled himself in the co-pilot chair with a heavy sigh, “This is deep cover. And the time period isn’t something we can work out. The sleepers could be woken a week from now, or six months, we don’t know.”  He told them flatly.  “We don’t know much.” He added bitterly, “You’ll have nothing but a handler who will contact one of you every two weeks. And each other.” He told them, glancing between them now, “If that’s going to be-“_

_“There’s no problem.” May told him in clipped tones._

_“Fitz is working on untraceable comms, injected just behind your ear with lines fed in.” Coulson told them quietly, choosing to ignore her rather barbed interjection and keep the conversation flowing as smoothly as it could,“So you can talk to each other, and us, if the lines aren’t being watched. The sleepers we picked up had a similar system in place that Fitz has managed to copy, but we can’t ensure that the line is secure. They could be listening to every word you say to each other, or to us. It’s too dangerous for us to have open lines of communication with you. You’re going in blind and deaf and I don’t like it.”_

_He grimaced at them both and paused, letting what he had said sink in a little before saying, “This is a dangerous op and there are no guarantees that either of you will come back from it. There’s no extraction. There’s no backup. No SHIELD techs looking round corners for you. You’re on your own. In hostile territory. And if they make you I don’t have to tell either of you what they’ll do.”_

_She glanced away from Coulson and met his eyes properly for the first time since he had shuffled into the cockpit. She could see the steely glint in his eye. The stubborn set of his jaw. If he was going in he wasn’t going alone, she would make sure of that. She nodded to him. He turned to Coulson,_

_“We’ll do it.”_

He could feel her breathing on top of him and the steady pulse of her heart beneath the ribs that were pressed against his. Her eyes were lightly closed against the world but he knew she was far from sleep.

Over the course of their relationship, he had begun to wonder if she ever did. She was always up and out of bed, showering, dressing or at some other stage of her morning routine, when he woke, his arm curled around the thin air she had managed to leave in her place. When she caught his eye he was rewarded with a subtle smile and slight nod before she slipped out and left him.

Even on the rare occasions nightmares had dragged him from sleep early, he found her awake and alert beside him, her eyes bright and questioning in the dark, wordlessly asking him what he wanted from her. More often than not that was to have her settle on his chest and lie there for a little while, the warm pressure of her body against his was comforting somehow, and she allowed the intimacy she typically avoided after sex, preferring to roll onto her side and sleep as though alone, when she knew it helped him.

He found himself lightly stroking her hair. And she found herself allowing it. Whether because she knew that the smooth, repetitive gesture soothed him, or because it soothed her too, he couldn’t tell. But he tentatively continued, feeling his breathing slowly return to normal as he did so, instinctively falling in to sync with hers, almost as though she was guiding him back to being ok with her again.

She could feel him hesitating. Words tugging irritably at his tongue, his lips holding them back. His breath catching in his chest. Interrupting the momentarily smooth rhythm of his breathing beneath her. She waited. Patient. Knowing attempting to prise his reluctance from him was unlikely to help either of them. And so she waited. Steadily. Hoping that her quiet provided solace and reassurance rather than putting him off. Finally, his fingers still tenderly murmuring over her hair as he struggled with himself, he opened his mouth, and she allowed her fingers to dig gently into his chest, giving him quiet, tentative permission to go on, rewarded when he murmured,

“What happened?” 

She understood his reluctance now. His hesitation. The internal struggle between wanting to ask, needing to know, and being loathe to upset her. She shifted uncomfortably beneath him. She knew he had been wanting to address this since they had been together on the Bus again. She could feel the guilt burning through him. Could see it in his eyes every time he looked at her. The way they darkened. And lowered to the ground in horror. In pity. In shame. She had been put through Hell. And he felt responsible. And she sensed, not that he wanted her to assuage his guilt, to tell him it was OK. To tell him that he had no reason to feel guilty. That she didn’t blame him. He wanted her to tell him that she did. That some small part of her held him accountable for what had happened. He needed something tangible, someone to hate, someone to blame. He wanted the truth from her. Whatever the truth was.

The facts she could lay out in front of him. She could tell him what had happened. She could tell him how she had been taken. But she couldn’t answer the question that he actually needed answered. She couldn’t tell him why. She couldn’t help him.

She took a deep breath and massaged her temples, thinking on how best to phrase this. “There were never any sleepers.” She explained quietly, “They were plants. Playing roles. Offered up as bait to SHIELD. They know how we operate, Ward. They knew what we would do if we captured two of their sleeper agents, they knew we would try and seed in our own operatives. We did exactly what they wanted us to do...”

He nodded, closing his eyes. His jaw setting harshly as he growled, “When did they figure this out?”

“I don’t know.” She told him softly, “It doesn’t matter. Every move we made was being watched. There was no way they could tell us without getting us killed.”

“They were just biding their time waiting for us, May. The entire time.” He whispered, closing his eyes and shaking his head, “They were just playing with us. Waiting to see how much bullshit they could feed us about their organisation before they...” he broke off, closing his eyes, his fingers wandering over her body, his eyes constantly drawn to her back, the wounds hidden beneath her light vest top and the layers of bandages he had wound around her body burned into his eyes.

“I was sure you were safe.” He whispered to her, shaking his head, his hand tightening protectively around her shoulder. “I knew you could take care of yourself. That if the worst came the worst you would get out. You’re a fighter, May.” He told her softly, “And that wasn’t enough. Because of _me_ that wasn’t enough. They took you. They hurt you.” He hesitated, shaking beneath her now as he whispered, “That was something I told you I would never let happen to you.”  

She glanced up at him uncertainly. His eyes were dark and turned away from hers, unable to look at her for fear of what he would see. She closed her eyes, swallowing hard and gripping on to him a little tighter as tremors continued to run through his body as he tried to force control over the emotions that were destroying him from within.  

She stretched her arm up to him, her fingertips brushing over his cheek, having him look down at her at last while she murmured, “You didn’t hurt me, Ward.” She held his eyes firmly in her gaze, shaking her head faintly and breathing softly, “You didn’t hurt me.”

“I was the reason you got hurt, May.” He murmured, “I was running point on that op. I knew the details of that op. Details you didn’t know. Details that could have told me you were in danger. You, you trusted me to keep you safe. And they took you. And they tortured you. And that...That is on me.”

He turned away from her, closing his eyes and pushing her hand away. He twisted beneath her and slid away from her, perching on the edge of the mattress his back to her. His body wailed in protest to her absence. Shivering. Discomfort rippling through him. Loneliness filling him up and calling out for her. The tender pressure and heat of her body on top of his had been the first feeling in so long that he had wanted. Not just tolerated. But actually wanted. She was safety and security, familiarity and comfort all bound up in one gentle touch. And he needed that more than anything. But after everything he had done. He couldn’t ask for that now. He couldn’t want her. He couldn’t need her. He couldn’t have her. He didn’t deserve to have her comfort, her security, her reassurance.

A short, humourless bark of laughter escaped him as he pitched forwards, rubbing his eyes with his hands as he muttered, “It was never a risk, was it May?” she watched him from the pillows, instinct driving her to place herself close to him again, caution keeping her where she was as he looked back at her, his eyes almost black in the dark, flat and empty as he murmured, “You were never going to be hurt because of me.” He told her coldly, “And no matter how careful we were. Somehow I always find a way...”

“Ward...” she murmured gently, laying a tentative hand on his shoulder. He threw her off. She winced. Lost. Not sure what she was supposed to do to help him.

_His hand had settled gently at her hip, his fingers firmly holding her body to him, feeling her sides rise and fall as she breathed beside him. His free hand wandered up and down her body beneath the light sheets she had drawn up over her chest. She opened her eyes and told him with a quiet control,_

_“We need some boundaries.”_

_He glanced down at her for a moment, allowing the room to fill with nothing but their gentle breathing for a few seconds before answering slowly, almost cautiously,_

_“Like?”_

_She hadn’t moved since she started speaking, still lying, small and neat as he sprawled out beside her, her body remained relaxed, her eyes flat and calm as they wandered towards him, her voice even and casual, as though she was discussing another mission,_

_“This is just sex, Ward.” She told him simply, “It’s just physical. There’s no relationship. No commitment. No strings.”_

_“OK.” He agreed carefully, “And I take it this stays between us?” he asked with a light smirk, his fingers running over her bare skin as he spoke._

_“Of course.” She told him, the corners of her lips flickering in amusement._

_“May, are you sure?” he asked softly, his eyes meeting hers and knowing she was before he said anything else, but needing to say it, needing to be certain, “I don’t want you to...I don’t want either of us to get hurt here, or-“_

_“That’s not going to be a risk with me, Ward.” She told him dismissively, sitting up and sliding off the bed, turning her back on him._

_He caught her risk, “Melinda-“_

_She turned to glare at him, “It’s not a risk with me, Ward.” She repeated flatly, “It’s never going to be a risk with me. To get hurt out of this relationship, I would have to care about it. I don’t.” Her tone was colder than she had intended. Softening slightly she leant over and gently squeezed his hand, telling him quietly, “Stop worrying.”_

_“I’m not.” He answered automatically, taking a breath and summarising neatly for her, “Just sex. No strings. No-one gets hurt.”_

 “Somehow I always find a way to get the people I care most about hurt.”

“You didn’t-“ she murmured.

“They hurt you.” He snapped, his voice breaking, anger and emotion spilling over despite his efforts to keep them contained, “They hurt you because of me. They hurt you to hurt me. They hurt you because I couldn’t help you. They hurt you because I couldn’t keep you safe. They hurt you because I couldn’t protect you.”

He broke at this. His body clenching harshly, forcing memories he had hidden from for most of his adult life back to the surface. Anger and frustration and crippling guilt seized him. They made him volatile and desperate. And they destroyed him. He closed his eyes. His hands curling into fists, his nails biting roughly into his palm, the sparks of protest that his nerves threw up at this giving him a tiny outlet for the agony that was filling him up. In the end, hopelessness won out and he slumped back in on himself, gaunt and trembling, his voice soft and bitter as he whispered,

“They hurt you and all I did was sit back and watch.”

“Stop.” She murmured shaking her head and sliding forwards, wrapping her arms around his torso, tenderly laying herself across his back, his skin hot, blazing like fire beneath her, almost too much so. But she was cold and numb now. His words dulling her senses as she withdrew into herself. To protect herself. And she could use a little fire, a little warmth to bring her back to him. “Shh. Stop, Ward, stop.”

“You’re the one that needs to stop.” He snarled at her, turning on her and causing her to jerk back away from instinctively. Watching him with a guarded expression as he growled, “You have to stop, Melinda. Stop telling me it wasn’t my fault. Stop telling me that no part of you blames me because I know you do. I can see it in your eyes. Stop hurting yourself for me. Stop putting yourself through this to help me. Stop trying to help me.”

She watched him in silence for a long time. Watching the feeling drain from him. The anger that had snapped through him flooding from him as adrenaline leeched from his system and he slumped forwards, breathing too hard, his chest heaving with the effort of supplying his breaking body with oxygen. She waited until his eyes returned to his. Until she could find the frightened human being in them once more, rather than the stubborn monster that he dragged out of himself at his worst. Once she had that. She held it. She held him in her gaze. She calmed him as best she could. She slid closer to him. Her hand placed tenderly on his shoulder. And this time he let it.

He closed his eyes as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, swallowing hard. His hand slid down her side and slid under her vest top and slid up her spine, freezing when they met the bottom of her bandages. “This.” He told her in a taut voice, “This. This is why you have to....” He winced and shuddered repeating, his voice taut, his hand still around her body, unable to let her go, needing her to let go of him, needing her to leave him because he couldn’t leave her, “You have to stop helping me, Melinda.”

“No.” She told him bluntly.

_“No!”_

_Her faint cry of fear and warning was the last thing he heard before the implant in his ear shrieked at him, causing him to double over in agony before he was able to rip out the feeds to his ear._

_He froze. Panting. Deaf to her now. Blind to her situation. But she would be OK. She had to be OK. But there was still that nagging doubt in the back of his head, growing stronger every second he let himself dwell on the timely malfunction of their comms. The doubt that he should have pulled her out. That he should have told her that they were not just here to feed information back to SHIELD. That there was something else he had to do that she wasn’t aware of._

_It was too late for doubt. It was too late for anything other than pushing forwards. He had been manipulated into a situation where the only thing he could do was walk forwards, into what he suspected, with growing certainty would be a trap._

_She would be ok. She could handle herself. And most people bigger and stronger than herself. Something she had proven on several occasions. And he had sent her out of harm’s way. He had sent her somewhere they wouldn’t be able to find her. They would never be able to tie her to him. There was no way they could know about her. Whatever happened to him, she was safe. She was safe. She had to be. And he had to keep telling himself that. Because it was the only thing making him put one foot in front of the other and not go back for her. To make sure. She was safe. She was safe. She had to be safe._

_He had a mission to do. He was too close now. Too close to walk away. He had a job to do. He would do this job. Alone. As it had been for so many years. He only had to worry about himself now. May was too far away to help him, or to be hurt by this. He had a job to do._

_He slipped into the warehouse. It was empty. But he was early. That was too be expected. He waited. One hand on the loaded gun he had hidden in the waistband of his jeans. Murmuring over it. Reassuring himself._

_The meet was simple. A seemingly innocent exchange of information. Secrets for secrets. Except his secrets were fake. But they trusted him now. The little he had managed to feed them so far had earned him that. They would take what he was offering. And they would give him what he needed. And then he could go home. They could both go home. Six weeks. Six long weeks. But they were nearly done now. He was going to bring them home._

_Something shifted in the corner of his vision. Attracting his attention. He turned to look at it. His gun drawn and in his hand. This was supposedly a friendly meet. But he didn’t trust them. He didn’t trust any of them. With good reason._

_The woman in the flower dress slid out from behind the boxes. Hands raised innocently. Watching him with keen, cat-like eyes. He relaxed as much as he could with his gun still drawn, finger on the trigger. She smiled sweetly and motioned for him to lower the weapon._

_“You don’t trust many people, do you?”_

_“Do you?” he asked her pointedly, raising his eyebrows, the gun lowering an inch, but still clamped firm and ready in his grip, “In our line of work, trust gets you killed.”_

_“And yet it’s so necessary to what we do.” She reminded him, pacing in front of him, seemingly supremely unconcerned by the weapon he kept trained on her, “Without trust neither of us would be here now.” she reminded him, “We wouldn’t be able to help each other without trust.”_

_“So you have what I asked for?” he asked her bluntly, in no mood to play riddles with her today._

_“Oh yes.” She told him in honeyed tones her eyes flashing brightly, “Do you have what we asked for?”_

_“Of course he does.” A second voice interrupted. He glanced back to look at it’s owner and howled as someone cut his legs out from under him, forcing him to his knees, panting. “The only question now is how we take it.”_

_His hands were bound roughly behind him and he was blindfolded as he struggled violently, throwing off faceless bodies that crashed against him in an attempt to subdue him. A needle was driven into his neck, causing him to freeze panting._

_A delicate hand was laid on his shoulder._

_Raina’s perfume filled his lungs._

_“You don’t trust many people, Agent Ward.” She murmured silkily in his ear, his stomach dropping to the floor as he realised his cover was well and truly blown, “And that works well for the world you’re living in.” She murmured to him, “But if you want to live in_ my _world. You have to learn not to trust anyone.”_

_He felt something cold and sharp flood into his veins from the point of the needle and felt himself being lowered to the ground as his muscles abandoned him, no longer obeying his control as they relaxed and sank into the floor._

_Darkness began to fill his eyes and his mind, dragging him away from anything and everything and as he sank into oblivion, the only thing he could think of was her. Her name repeating over and over again in his head._

_May..._

_“Ward! Ward.” Someone was calling his name. Over and over again. The fruity, lilting voice almost familiar to him through his hazy confusion._

_His blindfold was tugged off and someone sat him up, steadying him, as they worked at the cords that bound his hands together._

_“Markov.” He spat, recognising the SHIELD handler that had been meeting with him every few weeks over the course of the op._

_“We are getting you out of this my friend.” He told him, his rich accent spilling over as he finally managed to cut Ward free._

_“May?” he growled, getting to his feet and shaking his head like a dog, trying to clear it._

_“She’s safe.” He was promised firmly, his jacket being insistently dragged towards a door on the far left of the room, “She was picked up at her rendezvous point a few hours ago.” He was told, being tugged persistently away, “We just have to get you out of here now.” He froze. Staring down at the little man bobbing about his elbow. “Move!” he snapped insistently, “Come now. Ward, come on, we have to go. Ward!”_

“Ward.” Her voice was gentle, her fingers sliding over his hand, squeezing it lightly as he swayed slightly on the spot, shivering, his eyes closed, his limbs locked tensely in place as he choked,

“I should have known.” He shuddered, pulling away from her cautious touch once more, “I should have known, I should have seen from the beginning. I should have pulled you out when I had the chance. I should have-“

“There are a lot of things we both should have done but we can’t now.” she tried to tell him softly.

“But if I had-“ he breathed, turning to look at her, his eyes full of pain and fear, “I thought you were dead, May.” He whispered softly, “After everything that had happened all I could think about was you. And all I think was that you were dead. You were dead and it was my fault.”

_“Rendezvous?” He repeated, turning to glare at him, “There is no rendezvous. For May. For me. For anyone. Why would you-“_

_“Ah, my friend.” He sighed with a soft smirk, glancing at his feet as he backed away, shaking his head, “I believe this is what we call the end of the line.”_

_Ward lunged for him but the sound of the gun interrupted him, stunning him and throwing him back away from him. A pulse burned through him and his nerves ignited, twitching and jerking against his control as he fell to his knees, using every bit of strength he had to avoid curling into a ball on the floor and howling in agony._

_“You see.” A slight, smooth voice informed him, sliding into his ear like a snake shifting into long grass,  accompanied by the rhythmic click of high heels and light swish of silks, “I told you. Trust no-one.”_

_“You son of a bitch!” he spat at Markov, “You sold us out.”_

_May..._

_“No.” Was the dispassionate, unconcerned reply, as he shrugged evenly, “I picked a side.”_

_Raina knelt down beside him, sliding her fingers under his chin and tilting his head up to look at him as the nerve agent they had stunned him with made it impossible for him to resist looking into her large, doe-eyes as she murmured,_ “ _If you take my advice. If you do as I say. This will go better for you in the end, Agent Ward.”_

_May..._

_“Screw you.” He spat at her, his limbs still jerking violently around him as a group of black-shrouded figures surrounded him and pinned him down, binding his hands again while he was powerless to resist._

_She smiled poisonously at him. Watching his hopeless plight with an almost amused expression. “You’re going to help me, Agent Ward.” She told him softly._

_“No.” He told her firmly, “I’m not.” He snapped. She began to pace around him, like a wolf stalking cornered prey, forcing him to turn his head to keep her in sight as he spat derisively, “You can do whatever the hell you want to me. You can hurt me however you want. I’m not telling you anything.”_

_May..._

_“I have no intention of hurting you.” She told him sleekly, glancing up at him, her eyes wide and almost innocent save for the thirsty flames stirring in their depths. “You’re going to help me.” She told him softly, snapping her figures and summoning another two guards to her, dragging a third, unconscious figure before them, throwing them on to the floor in front of his feet, “Because if you don’t,” she told him, a faint, sadistic glee flaring in her eyes as he recognised the limp body on the floor in front of him and struggled desperately and futilely against his bonds as she murmured, “I’m going to hurt_ her _.”_

_May._


	4. In The Confines of Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapter: Violence, torture, abuse. Heavy chapter with mentions and descriptions of all of these, please be aware of this before reading.  
> And thank you for sticking with this story, and with me, if you have, I know it's been a while.

** Chapter 4  **

In The Confines of Fear

Fear.

Panic.

Terror.

Pain.

It all came back to fear.

Fear of panic. Fear of terror. Fear of pain.

Hot and cold all at once. The red hot pulse that fired first. Tearing through nerves. The cold dread that gathered in the pit of the stomach and spread like a chill frost. Slowly and deliberately, creeping into the lungs, snatching every breath and trapping it in the chest. Causing a blind struggle for air, gasping and panting and struggling, making it almost impossible to breathe.

It found its way into every heart. Corrupted every mind. Twisted every soul. The doubt hissed in vulnerable ears whenever a human being is left alone. The darkness that breeds easily in someone’s soul from birth. Crushing and consuming. Manipulative and dangerous. Crippling and destructive. Fear.

He knew fear.

He had known fear every day of his life. An ever-present, overbearing shadow that had appeared over his shoulder in childhood and had stubbornly dogged each footstep since. He had kept waiting to grow out of it. To get over it. To get out from under it. But fear seemed to have taken a great liking to him. Whatever he did. He could never shake it. He’d had to come to terms with it and learn to deal with it as best he could.

It came to him in many forms and acted in different ways from motivator to manipulator. It could take him and force him into being a hero for an hour or twist him and make him into a monster he barely recognised.

In darker moments it reached out to him as a friend of sorts, a tentative ally when he had nothing else. Something so painfully familiar that he could reach out and connect with it and use it to remind himself of who he was.

He was nothing without fear. No-one was. It made us human. It reminded us of what it meant to be human. What it was to be alive. That intensity. That fire. That consumed us. And threatened to destroy us or burn us out. With the beautiful irony that in the moment we didn’t care. In the moment we just wanted to live. It forced us to face why we wanted to. It divulged hidden desires and priorities. It left no room for thought. Only instinct. Only action. Only survival.

He knew that too.

And so when someone had told him that. He had clung to it. With a fervour of believing that his fear showed him why he wanted to be alive. Not why he wished to be dead to escape it. He had clung to it then but now the words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Because he had learned to control it. To force it to an advantage. A motivator. Something to make him do something, make him help, make him want again. But the panic that was twisting in his gut was anything but controlled. And whoever had taken him knew that. And that terrified him more than anything else had the power to.

***

_“This time let me help you.”_

_The firm pressure of her fingers curling, almost protectively, around his wrist; stopping him from reaching for the thing that she could see was destroying him, even if she didn’t know why._

_Her tone was flat and blunt and brokered no arguments. Yet there had been a certain warmth to it. A sincerity. A genuine desire to help him. An almost tender want to reassure and to soothe. And he had let her. He had withdrawn. He had admitted that he couldn’t do this. That he needed help. He needed her to help him._

_Showing something like weakness. Vulnerability. The confession to her and to himself that he was not infallible, he was no invincible._

_“Let me help you.”_

_Her words filled him again as she padded into hotel corridor and glanced up at him. Her eyes silent, repeating those words, her look causing them to echo in the air between them. Wordlessly making the same offer to him. Acknowledging that he needed it. He still needed it._

_But it was her next motion that drew him to her, dispelling the hesitation that had been trickling into his system. The faint flickering of her eyes. Glancing back towards the room. That split second doubt in herself that she had not been clear enough. The revelation that was tied up in that of her wanting and needing him to help her as much as she saw he needed her to help him._

_She covered the slip in a heartbeat. Pushing the door open and smoothly disappearing into the room. The definition of composure and control restored to her. But it had been enough. Enough for him to see. Enough for him to know. She was not pitying him. She was not dreaming of putting him back together in a night. She was hurting. And she could see that he was too. And she needed help and she wanted to help. And in some ways hoped that they might be the same thing._

_He slid his key card back into his pocket and walked slowly back up the corridor, slipping inside and closing the door behind him with a soft click._

_Her back was to him. Two glasses on the counter. She had known he would come. She turned before she poured out the drink to see if that bothered him. He was still walking slowly towards her. It didn’t. She knew her team. She knew him. She knew people. He accepted that._

_She nodded firmly and poured a generous splash of whiskey into both glasses, shoving his towards him without looking at him. He caught the glass in his hand and lifted it, wetting his lips with the dark liquid, studying her over the rim of his glass._

_She poured herself a few carefully judged fingers and threw them back, wincing at the bitter sting that kicked the back of her throat as she did so. She poured herself another generous measure. He made to quietly suggest she slow down but she only turned to him, glass held lightly in her hand watching him, clearly waiting for him to speak._

_“So what?” he growled faintly, trying to keep his tone casual then wondering why he was bothering, glancing down into the glass, tilting his wrist and making the dark liquid swirl angrily, watching it instead of her as he demanded defensively, “Is this the part where we have a few drinks? We bond? I share all of my dark secrets with you? And we have our little moment?” He knew it wasn’t. Knew that had never been her intention. But he wanted to get a reaction from her. He should have known better._

_She said nothing, watching him steadily, waiting once more. “Why did you bring me in here, May?” he asked, his words almost compulsively filling the silence, “You want me to talk is that it?”_

_She let the air slowly run from her lungs as she considered him for a moment, letting some of the nervous anger that had just burned through him cool a little, raising the glass to her lips again then thinking better of it, lowering it once more and saying evenly, “Firstly, I didn’t ‘bring’ you in here. I left the door open. You came in.”_

_He hissed in irritation and snarled roughly, “Call it whatever you want, May, I still want to know why.”_

_She thought about this for a moment before asking steadily, “Why did you come in?”_

_“Don’t try and answer a question by asking another one.” He snarled tautly._

_“Why, Ward?” she pressed, seemingly unfazed as his temper flared again, her voice softened slightly as she asked, something like uncertainty creeping into her voice, “Do you want to talk?” He turned away from her without answering. She persisted. “Do you want me to talk?” Still nothing. “Do you want to drink?” His fingers flexed around the glass in his hand but his lips didn’t move to offer up an answer for her. She paused a moment before asking pointedly, “Do you want to leave?”_

_“No.” He said, this suggestion finally stinging him into an answer, speaking at least, a little too quickly. “No.” He said again, his voice softer, his words somehow firmer for that, “No I don’t want to leave.”_

_“Then don’t.” She told him simply. “Talk. Drink. Whatever you want. Stay.” She hesitated, the tip of her finger running delicately around the rim of the glass in her other hand, before telling him quietly, “I don’t have a hidden agenda here, Ward. I’m not trying to play therapist or psychologist I just...I didn’t think you’d want to be alone tonight.” She murmured softly, a strange edge creeping into her voice as she had gone on._

_“Yeah?” he demanded, his defences suddenly flaring again, his eyes narrowed, an anger that did not entirely belong to him pulsing through his veins without warning or invitation._

_“Yeah.” She answered, her voice dropping as his rose, becoming calmer the more aggressive he became, settling him in turn._

_“And what makes you think that, May?” he snapped, not entirely able to control himself as fully as she had, traces of hostility still filtering into his tone._

_She took a long time in answering and when she did the sincerity in her tone and the candidness of her words made him pause for a moment as she told him calmly, “Because I don’t want to be alone tonight.”_

_He paused, startled by her honesty, considering his response._

_“And you think I’m like you?” he asked, his tone, like his expression, hard for her to judge._

_“In some ways.” She told him carefully._

_“In some ways...” He repeated slowly to give himself time to think._

_She waited. Quiet once more. Knowing that that was one aspect of her personality he seemed to value. Where others complained that her stoic silences made them feel vulnerable, exposed and uncomfortable, he appeared to like the opportunities they afforded him for breathing space. There was no pressure to speak or be spoken to. It was simple, easy, almost._

_After a long time, that she had begun to fill by sipping at her drink once more, he nodded, making a clear decision and draining his glass to finalise it._

_She waited to see what he would do next. He set his glass on the counter once more and steadily grabbed the bottle, smoothly refilling his own before turning to top up hers. She nodded to him, understanding passing between them as he took a seat._

_For a long time they simply sat in a rare, companionable silence that would have made most uncomfortable but that suited them and their moment. They fed off of body language and tiny behavioural ticks they had been trained to notice and reacted to on instinct, gradually moving closer to each other as time went on, perching on the end of the bed together, nothing but the bottle and their own habits of loneliness separating them._

_They wordlessly refilled the other’s glasses. Trusting them to limit their alcohol intake more than they would have trusted themselves._

_The silence endured. As they had. Until he broke it, his voice cracked from quiet and harsh draughts of the brutal whiskey,_

_“How?”_

_She took another rhythmic sip of her drink, not looking at him, knowing he had more to say than that and giving him the room to say it._

_“You told me before,” he began in a tone that prompted another, premature gulp of the bitter alcohol held between her hands, “That you could, you could deal with what that staff showed you, what it put you through because you saw it every day...” he hesitated, his hands trembling at the thought, “How?” he repeated hoarsely._

_His question surprised her, though perhaps it shouldn’t have. And it took her a moment longer to consider it. She had been expecting ‘why’ or ‘what’ but how....How suited him more she thought._

_He wasn’t interested in prying information from her. In dragging up bitter old memories and upsetting her. He wanted control. He wanted her to tell him how to control herself. How to feel nothing. Maybe that’s what he thought of her too. Like they all thought of her. Had he come to her for a numbing agent? And not...Not what? What had she expected? She shook her head. He was in pain. And he wanted her to help him. And she wanted to help him. That was all._

_She shifted uncomfortably then said softly, staring down into her drink rather than up at him, “Because it reminds me.” She told him quietly, “It reminds me of the things that people are capable of doing to each other when they’re angry or upset or scared...What kind of monsters we become when we lose control.” She hesitated, taking a slow, shaky breath before admitting softly, “It’s not something I ever intend to let myself forget.”_

_She trailed off, hoping he wouldn’t press her for more, already feeling that she had said too much. He said nothing. And after a while, she raised her head and glanced up at him. He nodded quietly, reassuringly to her, then tentatively slid his hand over hers. She let her eyes meet his and then nodded in return, allowing her fingers to softly squeeze his hand, accepting his touch, welcoming it almost._

_“What do you see?” she asked him quietly, feeling him tense beneath her, “What do you see that you’re so afraid of seeing every day?”_

_***_

Soft like silk. Smooth and lilting. With the faintest hint of an accent even his trained ears could not place. The voice that had been murmuring to them in the darkness for what seemed like hours now continued to swell around them. That voice that he had mistrusted from the first hiss that had slithered from the hidden tongue of whoever owned it. That voice that made shivers trickle through his body; that made him want to run; that made him want to dive for cover, for shelter, that made him want to hide again, was still filling the air around them.

“It’s a curious thing, isn’t it? Fear. It’s a disease. A disease of the mind that we are all born with. Every human being on the planet suffers from fear. It is incurable. Unavoidable. Inescapable. You know fear. Better than most. You know fear instinctively. Don’t you?”

She was already bloodied. Bruised. Broken. He could see. Beaten, just enough, so they thought. Softened. The protective shell around a vulnerable nerve picked away. Exposed. Defenceless.

“Fear is unique. A virus, then. Like our fingerprints. Our DNA. Woven in to the very fabric of our being, the intimate fibres that make us who we are. Singular. Personal. No two people share exactly the same fears or express them in the same way, or _feel_ them in the same way. But they are there. And they are linked through our ability to be cruel. Our ability to manipulate others through those fears that haunt them. Because if you can make someone fear, Agent Ward. To their very core. Then that is power. That is control. There is nothing you cannot make them do for you...”

_“Leave him.” He snarls ._

_“But-“ A weak protest. That will earn him nothing he knows, but something compels him to try._

_“Leave him.” The hiss. The snarl. The fury that flickers behind those eyes at the idea of disobedience, of a loss of control. The hands curling into warning fists. “You know what will happen if you don’t.” The threat. Thinly veiled. Awfully controlled. His voice flat. His eyes dancing. Daring him to disobey. Knowing he could not._

_“Grant! Grant, help me! Help me! Grant, please!” the terrified sobs coming from so far away yet feeling sharp and almost painful in his ears, in his soul._

_“He...He’s scared.” He ventured again. His eyes closing a second later, cursing his own stupidity. Of course he was scared. That was the point._

_“So are you.” He was reminded cruelly. Casually. With an ease that came with practice and triumph. Assured success before the games had even properly begun._ “That’s why you’ll do as I tell you.”

“ _Grant? Grant! Please. Please...”_   _The pleading continued. And he wanted to tell him to be quiet. That it would end badly for them both if he did not. But he said nothing._

_“Leave him.” The repeated command. Eyes flashing. Teeth bared in a vicious, triumphant snarl._

“You’re a fighter. You understand the value of knowing and exploding an opponent’s weakness.” The soft, lilting voice was bleeding over the harsh, cracking hiss that belonged to his brother. That belonged to a different time. A different person. And yet had seemed so real in that moment. “You know the value of finding that pressure point that cannot be tolerated.”

He watched them bind her hands over her head to a lean metal frame. She resisted. She was punished. He looked away, wincing.

A pressure point they didn’t have to push very hard.

Quiet, satisfied smiles ringing in the silence that graced his mind for a second.

“Fear is an excellent pressure point so I have found. Would you like to know why?” The tone implied that his feelings on the subject were entirely irrelevant to the course of this monologue, “You are familiar with torture in your line of work.” A chill descended into him. “How could you fail to be?” He closed his eyes, ice freezing in his bones til they burned and his nerves were sure that they would never revel in the warmth of her touch again, “Torture gets you what you want. Acceptance. Information...Pleasure.”

_“Do you remember now?” the scream ripped through him. Fuelled with fire and rage and cracking as a loss of control infused each syllable._

_His body shaking, tensing, every muscle drawn taut like a curled fist. Bracing. Anticipating. Comforted almost as the expectation of pain was rewarded. It flashed through him. Hot and sharp. With a faint, almost bittersweet tinge. His brain, so intent on processing the feeling that it almost missed the point; his next words,_

_“I like it. I’m doing you a favour by not putting you through it. Do you remember that? Do you?”_

_Tensed muscles. Brace. Anticipation once more. Soft, dangerous footsteps receding._

_Calm. Relief. Breathe._

“What I want is in your head. And your head alone. So isn’t that where I should go to get it? Psychological torture s so much more effective, so much more _elegant_ than physical. Wouldn’t you say? No. Then I shall tell you why. Pain.” His voice wrapped around that world and cradled it like a child, like it was precious and dear to him. “The object of torture, whatever its end, is pain. And pain begins in the mind. It spreads from there. Like poison it spreads. To the body; to the heart; to the soul. But it begins, it all begins in the mind. In your mind. In your weakness. In your fear.”

He was watching her. Still watching her. As they wanted. As they had to. Because even if she couldn’t see him. Even if she didn’t know he was there. Closing his eyes felt like abandoning her. And he couldn’t do that.

He watched as someone slid a blade beneath her shirt and slit it clean open at the spine. She hissed as the cool metal pressed against her skin, but whoever was preparing her took care not to split it. She was breathing hard. Trying to control herself. She was scared. She wouldn’t look at any of them. He knew she was scared.

He tugged sharply against his restraints for the first time. His eyes boring into hers. Willing her to turn to him. To look at him. To know that he was there for her. To look in his eyes and know that he would do anything to help her, to free her, to make her safe.

Her eyes met his.

Full of fire and warmth and fight.

He nodded to her once.

She nodded back in return.

Then howled as she was struck across the back, the bare skin that had just been freed screaming in protest.

He was crying her name. Willing those eyes to look at him again, to see him again. But her head was bowed. Her hair covering her face. Her eyes closed tight against him.

And so he closed his too.

He could hear her panting, trying to breathe through  her pain and so he glanced towards her, her eyes open once more, hooded and dark. Resigned. Almost calm.

He was tense. Panicked. His entire body shaking violently. Trying to will the situation into fiction while every fibre of his terrified being screamed that it was real.

He mouthed ‘I’m sorry’ to her in Chinese, hoping that she would catch it and their captors would not.

He was lucky.

As much as anyone in this situation could be.

She shook her head slowly,  almost imperceptibly, but she knew he would see, her eyes closing for a moment, seizing his attention when they snapped open again and found him once more as she mouthed back, ‘It’s OK.’

****

_“It’s OK, Ward.” Her voice was as gentle as she could make it; calming, soothing almost._

_Her eyes were large and tender and close. She was so close to him. Closer than she had ever been; closer than anyone had been to him in a long time now. The part of himself that he had locked down, that he had ignored for so long, that part of his past that he had viciously tried to cut out of himself, like a cancerous tumour in his soul, was swelling in him once more and she was getting so dangerously close to it._

_Something she seemed to sense. But she refused to shy away from him as so many had, as he had begged so many to do. She stayed, fixed so firmly in place that he wondered whether she would ever leave his side again. And then wondered if he would mind if she didn’t._

_He should have expected it, he supposed. Loyalty bordering on reckless stubbornness seemed to be inherent in Melinda May’s DNA. She would not leave. Whatever happened .She would not leave him tonight, he knew that. Unless he asked her to. And he couldn’t. So she would stay._

_Abandonment was not in her nature. No matter how lost her cause seemed to be. She couldn’t leave it. She couldn’t fail it. A fierce protective instinct over those she cared about warmed the blood in her veins that those who never knew her claimed was shot with ice._

_And she had chosen to care for him._

_For whatever reason, she had chosen to care. And so now her eyes were full of fire for him; tempered only by the haunted reminders of the darkness that still twisted her soul._

_She hesitated. Not sure what she could do, not sure what she should do. They had steadily and silently worked their way through a lot of the whiskey before he had begun to speak. Deliberately. Carefully. Weighing every syllable on his tongue, considering it before saying anything._

_His speech hesitant and broken, furthered only by the patient silence she offered him. Asking her what she had seen. Not waiting for the answer he knew he would never get, stumbling on and telling her that it was supposed to be the worst things that had ever happened to a person that were summoned by the staff, that it_ was. _The worst thing. The worst thing that had ever happened to him._

_And he had fallen silent then. Hopelessly so. And she had felt compelled to fill it for the first time that night, and had told him as sincerely as she could that it was OK. Not that it was OK, or that what he felt was OK or that he was OK. None of them were true. But it was OK to talk. It was OK to talk to her. It was OK to trust her._

_He had not responded. And why should he have? Her words had been blank and empty, despite their intention or the warmth she had tried to fill them with. They were only words, after all. And she knew only too well what the weight of words were when a person was in pain. Scared. Angry. Feeling, so intense that it not only filled a person but expanded them; they became more than they could take or hold; feeling that threatened to consume or to destroy; the feeling that she could see behind his eyes, however hard he tried to hide it, would not controlled by words._

_She was losing him. She could fell that, and urgency spurred her on to desperation which was overcome against her will by instinct and impulse and she reached out and tenderly placed her hand over his._

_He tensed at the contact and she panicked suddenly afraid that she had done the wrong thing. She almost pulled away but he turned to look at her, the emotion in his eyes somehow quietened by her touch. Her eyes meeting his helped._

_It gave him something else to connect to, someone else. He let himself relax a little, breathing once more, allowing her fingers to gently lace together with his, holding his hand, offering him what little support she could in that small touch._

_He turned to her again and she nodded quietly repeating her words but this time in Chinese, “It’s OK.”_

_The change of language pulled him further back to her, forcing his brain to work at translating the simple phrase and replying in kind, distracting him for a moment, “OK.”_

_It was simple. As simple as it could be, but she acknowledged the gravity of it nonetheless. A moment later it seemed to strike him as well. He turned away, his lungs suddenly seeming to reject the air he was attempting to breathe, but while he slipped from her again, sudden panic taking hold, his hand remained in hers, stubbornly refusing to let her go while he struggled with himself._

_Finally, he spluttered to her, “My brother.”_

_Once he had gotten those words out he seemed a little better. She gently led him to the edge of the bed and sat down with him, settling him beside her, “My brother.” He repeated, his voice softer and calmer, for more in control, “I had two. One older. One younger. The younger, he, he was harmless. Quiet. Shy. Gentle. Good...He was a good boy. My older brother was....He used to scare the Hell out of me; at of both of us, I...” his voice had dropped, becoming hoarse and brittle. She tightened her hand around his, encouraging him to go on. “He used to, used to beat the crap out of us, and that’s if he was in a good mood otherwise...Otherwise.” he broke off, swallowing hard and shaking his head, his jaw working, trying to clear the pressure of the emotion that was pulsing through him. “he was cruel, my brother,” he whispered shakily, “He liked hurting people. The only thing he liked more was seeing them get hurt. Making...Making other...He...He never really liked getting his hands dirty. If he could avoid it. He, he preferred sitting back, pulling strings, manipulating others. That was...” he turned to her, catching a look in her eye and shaking his head violently, choking, “I, I never wanted to, May, you have to, you have to understand that, I never wanted to, but he, I was scared.” He admitted finally, his voice cracking on the last word, his voice shaking with the effort it was taking to keep it controlled as he repeated  hoarsely, “I was scared. And if, I, if I ever said no, he hurt him worse, he hurt both of us worse and I...I knew what he was doing was wrong. I knew I hated him for it. I, I knew I wanted to protect my little brother but I didn’t...I couldn’t...I didn’t know how, I, I failed, it was my-“_

_“No.” She broke in, her voice sharp and firm, silencing him and softening, “No” she repeated more gently, squeezing his hand, her eyes quiet and concerned as she struggled to reach out to him, “You were just a kid.” She managed to murmur finally, “You were just a kid, Grant. In an impossible situation. That you should never have been put in to. It wasn’t your fault.”_

_He shook his head, pulling away from her for the first time and choking hollowly, “Do you know how many times I’ve heard those words?” he breathed, his voice low and strained, his body taut and trembling, pushed as close to breaking point as she had ever seen him. His eyes were dark and tortured when he turned to look at her once more before hissing, “How many times I’ve heard them in my own voice. Telling myself that over and over and over again trying to make it true, and do you know that good it did?” He turned away from her again, his eyes closing, his mouth clumping shut, unable to finish._

_She paused, watching him sway on the spot for a moment before leaving the relative safety of the counter and  moving into the open room again. Standing directly in front of him. She paused again to see if he would push her aside and when he did not, she reached up and gently placed her hands on his cheeks, tilting his head down to her._

_He allowed her touch and did not pull away but nor did he open his eyes or move closer to her. He simply stood. Trapped, held in place by his guilt and his pain and his fear._

_“Look at me.” She murmured tenderly, her hands as warm as her tone as she softly repeated, “Look at me, Grant.” The use of his name worked and his eyes tentatively opened to find hers steadily holding his gaze; flooded with words she could never find but that he somehow understood for her, “It’s time you started believing them.” She murmured softly._

_“Why?” he demanded in a broken mutter._

_She stared at him for a moment, confusion flickering across her face before murmuring, “Because they’re true.” She told him quietly, “You know it.” She went on, “but you’re upset and guilty and frustrated and you need someone to blame. You blame your brother. But you need someone to take it out on as well and you can’t take it out on him so you take it out on yourself. And that’s not helping anyone.”_

_“I just, I don’t, May...” he tried helplessly._

_“Self-destructing is no way to get on in this world.” She told him, a strange edge creeping into her voice, an understanding shifting in her dark eyes as she went on, “Breathing with the sole purpose of destroying yourself in every breath is no way to live.”_

_“It’s the only way I know how to.” He told her softly._

_“So let me help you.” She breathed, “Please, Grant. Let me help. Please...Please..”_

_****_

“Please!”

He was screaming.

He didn’t know when he had started, or if he wanted to stop but he was screaming.

“Please.” He choked again, straining against his bonds, desperate to get to her, his eyes fixed on her, his throat raw already. “Please.” He whispered pleadingly, noting to the pause, the silence, the interruption to the flat rhythm of the whip crashing down over her back and her muffled cries, a hesitation, a chance.

His breath caught in his throat, choking him, his eyes found hers again as her lips soundlessly moved to mouth his name, shaking her head, not wanting him to be hurt for defying them, not wanting him to hurt anymore than he already was, knowing the exact source of the agony behind his eyes and desperately biting her tongue for that reason.

“Please stop.” He murmured to them.  Faceless. Nameless. Captors. Torturers. Monsters.

It didn’t matter to him who they were now. It only mattered that they listened. That they stopped.

The moment balanced on a knife edge; suspended on a fraying string above calm and calamity; no-one moved; no-one spoke; no-one seemed to breathe or exist at all.

Until the whip fell once more.

And she screamed.

And felt herself being dragged away from his howl of anguish and deeper into herself, into a place where none of them could touch her, where she couldn’t think or feel or hurt or hear; where she could only drown in darkness and something like peace as she slipped out of consciousness.

****** 


	5. The Art of Understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I have been terrible in updating this fic, and I'm not really sure why the fancy struck me to write this tonight but there's just something about this pairing that I can't get over or let go of. And the potential of what they could have been still stings me. So, for anyone who is still reading this fic and feels the same way about these two I do, I thank you (and welcome any feedback you may have, as always)

** Chapter 5 **

The Art of Understanding

“May?” His voice is rough and hoarse as it curls around her name. “May.” He repeats, a little more insistently than before.

Flat, terrifying silence filled with only the restless pounding of his ironic heartbeat.

It thunders violently through him. A frantic, panicked rhythm. Like the sound of running footsteps. Footsteps that belonged to prey fleeing from the rabid wolf, chased, hunted, with the devil on their heels and nothing left to bargain with if they got caught.

It was a striking testament to the fact that he was still here. That he was still here. That he was still breathing. That he was alive. When he had rarely felt less so.

Darkness was settling around him and inside him. He would have been exhausted had it not been for his hammering heart. Forcing the adrenaline that had been shot through him and the increasing panic that was rising in him through his bloodstream, causing his body to tense and tremble.

He can’t see her. There are bodies pressing all around her. Blocking her from his view. He can’t see what they’re doing to her. He has no idea what she’s being made to endure because of him; without him. He can’t hear her either. She doesn’t answer him when he calls desperately to her. Perhaps she can’t. But all that registers with him is that she doesn’t. She doesn’t answer him. She can’t.

And that sends terror flooding through his system threatening to shut it down.

He struggles at his bonds again. Cutting the rope deep into his skin. Deep enough to draw blood. It stings and it burns and his body lashes out against him in protest, convulsing sharply as pain surges through it. He ignores it. He has to get to her. He has to see her. He has to know. He has to-

And just like that, they leave. Without a word of warning or explanation.

The doors to the little black room they’ve been left in are closed and locked. The harsh metallic click echoes through the space seeming to mock them, to reinforce the fact that they are prisoners. Trapped. Helpless. Left to the mercy of their captors. Notable so far only through it’s absence.

But they are alone now. Completely alone. He waits a few minutes. As long as he can stand it. Afraid that they’ll return and that she’ll pay the price of his impatience.

But they’re left alone with their darkness and their silence. With no threat of interruption or retribution. And he can see her now. Her prone form rising from the black floor, slumped only a few feet from him. And he can’t stand just sitting here doing nothing.

He struggles towards her. The thick bonds around his wrist make it almost impossible but he manages, collapsing down beside her, panting from the effort it took to drag himself to her side.

He forces himself into a sitting position.

“Melinda.” He murmurs softly, wanting nothing more than to reach out to her but refusing to do so without her permission. “Melinda, please...” He breathes urgently.

****

She can feel him hovering protectively behind her. She had noted the retreat of the bodies that had been pressing around her, suffocating her. Her vision had suddenly been flooded with light as the door in front of her had been opened; and reduced to a faint bar once more as it was closed again.

And then she felt the tension as he fought to keep his distance. To stay back. To wait. To see. To be sure. And then the soft but distinct sounds of him struggling towards her. Watching over her now. Whispering her name like a stolen prayer.

And she wanted to answer him. To calm him and reassure him. To tell him that it was okay; that she was okay.

But she couldn’t lie to him like that. And as their condition and situation continued to worsen it was becoming increasingly difficult to lie to herself on that front.

Every atom of her being seemed to be loudly and brutally protesting their circumstances. Her body ached everywhere from the abuse that she had endured. Her muscles burned and trembled. Pain pulsed through her brittle nerves as though they were fuses that had been lit by her beating and left to burn now.

Agony flared through her at random intervals. And it was all she could do not to lose consciousness again, to stay with him. She closed her eyes. Slowing her breathing. Bringing it under control. Trying to gentle the twisting torment inside her.

*****

He’s quiet. Watching her tense and convulse in pain before him. Making him feel utterly helpless. Then seeing her freezing without warning. Forcing her short, rapid pants of breath to steady and slow becoming as smooth and measured as she could make them.

And he understood what he was trying to do. And forced himself to be still and silent for her. Knowing that was what was best.

While she tried to relax herself his eyes managed to tear away from her for long enough to focus properly on the ropes that had been knotted around his wrists. He began to pick at them. He harboured no secret longings for escape. Not with Melinda in this condition. But they were tight and were rubbing the skin beneath them raw. And he had always found that there was something therapeutic in undoing knots and untangling wires. A certain satisfaction that made it a worthwhile endeavour.

It was logical. It made sense to him. Setting something straight. Solving the problem presented to him by the twisted rope. His eyes followed the pattern and his brain set about processing a solution and setting his fingers to work on it.

He felt something like a smile, if he had still remembered what that was, ghost across his lips a few minutes later as he dropped the length of rope by his side and rubbed at his newly released wrists, grimacing slightly as his fingertips brushed over the sensitive patches of rough, raw skin, sticky from blood in places.

He turned his full attention back to May as she weakly murmured his name.

****

It took a lot to manage that one word. Small. Simple. One that she had used many times before. _Grant._

She cursed herself for her weakness a second later. Closing her eyes and letting another tremor wash through her.

But his response was as immediate as it was urgent. Concern and fear clearly etched in every syllable he spoke as he replied, softly breathing “Melinda” to her.

He moved around her, crouching down in front of her, blocking her from the door, offering her a second’s protection so it seemed, if their captors were to return to them.

She nodded to him, knowing that he was waiting for her approval before he made any move to touch her and knowing that he would understand the gesture as her giving it to him.

He did. He shifted a little closer to her, his body hovering over hers as he examined her. She liked his closeness. The heat radiating from his skin. The intimacy of the moment. Vile though the situation may be. The move was still oddly comforting. Had she really grown so used to having his body beside hers?

His hands ghosted lightly over her, barely touching her as he catalogued every cut and every bruise that she had sustained. She could feel his sense of guilt grow with every fresh injury he uncovered.

“Grant.” She murmured again, meeting his eyes as he glanced down at her and she tried to convey all of the things that she couldn’t say to him. That it wasn’t his fault. That she didn’t blame him for any of this. That he was doing well. That it would be okay. That they were going to get through this. They were going to get through this together.

He seemed to understand. A little, at least.

He moved his hands to her hair, brushing it tenderly away from her face and out of her eyes. His thumbs delicately stroking her cheeks, his touch so light, as though afraid that her skin would crumble beneath him like dry paper turned to ash by his touch. His hand trembling faintly, as though afraid that he would leave bruises if he was any firmer.

She closed her eyes as he let a little contact bridge between them once more surrendering something to his touch.

He murmured her name again.

She slowly reached up, joining their hands, letting their fingers entwine, raising his hand a little higher, her lips gently brushing over his knuckles. She wasn’t sure why. She wasn’t sure what had prompted the gesture, the intimacy. But it helps. It helps him. Grounds him. Anchors him to something and she can feel him settle somewhat.

And it helps her. It reminds her that she has him. Someone she trusts and can depend upon if she needs to. That she’s not alone. That she doesn’t have to be. That she doesn’t have to go through this alone. And that helped.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and then released her and returned to examining her. His hands whispering over her body assessing the damage.

“I don’t think anything is broken.” He tells her, his voice as steady as it can force it to be. “Though it’s hard to tell in these conditions.” He grimaces, looking around them.

His hands move over the gashes on her back. She hisses in pain despite his delicacy. He pauses and murmurs several tender apologise to her before continuing.

She watches the muscles in his face contort with anger and pain on her behalf and finds herself reaching for his hand again, squeezing it as firmly as she can.

She knows why he’s doing this. She knows why he has to do this. Knows that it’s just in his nature. That he cares for her and that compels him to look after her. However he can. And he needs to feel like he’s doing something. So she lets him do whatever he wills with her body. She trusts him.

He takes several deep, steadying breathes before saying, “None of these look too deep. And the bleeding is beginning to stop.” She can sense the but before he says hoarsely, “But you can’t take much more of this,  Melinda.”

She shifts uncomfortably and informs him flatly, “I can.” She tries to project more confidence than she feels into her words for his sake.

Everyone has their limits as human beings, even her. And eventually they’ll push past them. She’s never been in the business of lying to herself about what she can and can’t handle. That only puts herself and other agents at risk. She knows herself. She knows what she can take. But he doesn’t need to hear that now. He’s altogether too aware of it without her affirming it.

“I will.” She tells him firmly and then add softly, without ever quite being able to explain why, “I have to.”

His eyes meet hers in the dark and a spark of understanding flares between them. Because he understands these words and the weight of the implication and expectation behind them. Because he had said them before. Because he too had suffered so that others wouldn’t have to. Because he had endured to protect those he cared about. Because she knew that if there was anyone on this team who would fully understand this aspect of her it was him. Because it was a simultaneous strength and flaw that they both shared. And she knew that. And so she knew his answer before he gave it,

“No, you don’t.” He said, voice shaking, grimly.

“Grant-“ She whispers quietly, closing her eyes.

“You can’t, Melinda.” He snaps curtly, fear and frustration and exhaustion causing his answer to be far more brutal and blunt than he had intended. “You can’t take much more of this.” He hisses desperately, his voice cracking, “I know that. I know you. You can’t.”

“And that is exactly what they want you to think right now. That’s why they’ve done this. Why they’ve left us alone. Let you come to me. Let you see what they’ve done. So that it breaks you.” She growls as fiercely as she can manage.

But she knows that he won’t back down on this. That he never will. That he would fight to the death and beyond to protect someone that he cares about; someone he- She stops herself there. Unable to let her thoughts stray to that point and contemplate those emotions now under these circumstances.

Though she knows them to be true. And mutually so.

She pushes them back.

“They want me to think that because it’s true.” He snarls back at her.

And she’s fighting a battle here that she can’t ever hope to win. But then, neither can he. Because they’re both fighting the same war for the same reasons with the same convictions.

“I have, I have to do something, Melinda.” He breathes quietly, “I-“

“You can’t.” She interrupts sharply, grabbing at his wrist with a sudden burst of strength found from the fear of her realisation of what he wants to do, “You can’t.”

“It wouldn’t be anything important.” He counters urgently, his voice strained, “A lie. Anything.” He whispers and her stomach twists in real fear for the first time.  “I’ll lie to them, I’ll tell them something that’ll have them chasing their tails for a little while. It’ll take the heat off of you.” He insists desperately.

She shakes her head. “They’ll be expecting you to lie.” She reminds him weakly, “And when they find out that you have what do you think they’ll do to me then?” Her words are harsh and brutal but he needs to hear them and she needs to get through to him on this. She needs him to understand to start thinking rationally again.

“But it wouldn’t be you they’d come for. “He insists, so earnestly that she can feel a blade twist in her heart for him. “It would be me. I lied. It would be me they’d punish.” He presses wildly.

She shakes her head and says, “So it would be me they’d hurt. Because they know that’s what would cause you the most pain and punish you the most.” She whispers softly, “They know your weaknesses, Grant.” She murmurs quietly, “Which is why you can’t show them any.”

He knows this. And she knows he does. But she has to say it. She has to make him believe it again. “If you offer them a lie to make it stop for a while then they’ll know it’s working. They’ll know you’re desperate. They’ll know that they’re breaking you and you can’t let them do that. You know why you can’t.” She says fiercely, her voice growing in strength with every word.

She reaches out and tenderly brushes his cheek with her fingers, “I’m stronger than you think.” She murmurs quietly, “And I know you don’t want me to be because of what it means I’ll go through. But I am. I promise I am.” She closes her eyes, her words no longer coming from a training manual but from _her,_ “And if they break you, if you give them what they want, they will kill you.” She breathes softly, her fingers tightening around his wrist as she finds herself whispering, “And I’m not strong enough for that, Grant.”

She’s trembling she realises a few seconds before she realises she doesn’t care.

“Melinda-“ he begins soothingly, his hand tenderly cupping her cheek, his eyes softening as they meet hers again.

“Promise me.” She hisses her body tensing at the sound of footsteps outside, “Grant.” She breathes, “Grant promise me.” She growls harshly, “Promise me you want say anything.” She snarls, “Promise me that you’ll follow your training. Whatever they do to me.” She catches her cheek in her hand and forces him to meet her eyes as the door opens behind him, “Promise me.”

He hesitates closing his eyes in despair and struggling with himself before nodding and managing to mouth hopelessly, “I promise.”

Relief floods her.

He closes his eyes, internally cursing her.

They drag him up and retie his hands. The ropes dig in to the wounds he made struggling to get to her.

They pull her up.

A question.

He closes his eyes.

He shakes his head.

Her cry echoes through the room before she drops again. Her body desperately retreating to the backs of her mind to free her from the agony that’s been inflicted on it once more.

And she slips into the waiting arms of unconsciousness once more.

******

_She’s still breathing hard once he’s dragged her outside, away from Quinn, left quivering on the floor and bleating pointless protests to Coulson who’s been far too patient and tolerant over him already._

_She doesn’t care. She can’t hear what he’s saying. It doesn’t matter enough for her to try._

_Rage still pulses through her in waves. Rage that burned through her when she touched the beserker staff. Rage that still hasn’t left her system. Rage that coupled with the emotion that was tearing through her after what had happened to Skye; that needed an outlet before it burned through her and hollowed her out. Rage that makes her volatile and unpredictable. Like petrol near a flame, flammable and ready to ignite at the slightest provocation._

_She had contained. She had restrained herself. She had held back and kept herself in check and calmed herself with every method she knew of. But it had still gotten the better of her. And she’s angry at herself for that. She is. But she’d needed it. She’d needed something. And Coulson won’t understand. Won’t understand why. Not truly._

_He expects as much of her as the others. The others who look at her and see the Cavalry. He looks at her and sees Melinda May. But he sees Agent Melinda May. The trained, disciplined soldier he needs her to be. Respected and admired and even befriended but not understood beneath the SHIELD badge that frames every aspect of her._

_The only person who has a hope of understanding what she’s going through right now is standing next to her._

_And she can’t look him in the eye._

_Her body is tensed and quivering. Like a finger gripping the trigger of a gun, ready to fire, needing to fire, to release, ready to snap at any moment. And she should seize up. Or flinch away. Or push him off. But when the contact comes it’s perfectly judged and perfectly timed. Soft yet firm. Tentative yet sure. Foreign in her current state yet achingly familiar._

_And she allows it. And she even relaxes somewhat at it. Because he understands. He won’t look at her and see demons stirring in her eyes, he will look and see reflections of himself. He won’t look at her in shock and confusing but with empathy and understanding. He won’t look at her and wonder why or how she could lose control like that. Because he looks at her and sees a human being, a wounded, damaged, sometimes fragile human being that, against her better judgement or not, she allowed him to see._

_He slides his hand from its place on her shoulder to join with her hands and lifts them up for his inspection. He appraises the bruises and light cuts on her knuckles then nods, decided._

_“Come on.” He murmurs, not a command or a suggestion, merely a request. That she grants him._

_He doesn’t lead her to the medical hub Fitz and Simmons call home however, or even into the little kitchen area, instead he leads her away, away from it all, down into the cargo hold. The training room, their place. The place on this bus he knows she feels most comfortable and most at home and in control aside from her cockpit._

_Her cockpit does not however, have a small medical kit in it. He leaves her by a stack of heavy, cushioned training pads and she sits down wordlessly on them. He returns and sinks to his knees in front of her._

_He waits until she extends her hand to him, giving him permission. He cleans the cuts and she winces slightly, flexing her fingers as the solution stings the open wounds. He persists, however and once their clean examines them and comes to the conclusion that they don’t need stitches. He carefully begins to wind bandages around them in order to offer them some protection, having her flex her hand every now and then to make sure he’s giving her enough movement. She pronounces herself satisfied with his work with a swift nod._

_But he’s not done with her yet. Laying one hand lightly on her thigh he has her stay in the same place as he packs up the kit. She waits, almost certain that he’s not going to attempt to follow this with a lecture, he knows her better than that, she’s sure._

_Instead, he produces a roll of tape and glances up at her, raising his eyebrows. She blinks, seeking some sort of explanation._

_“If you need to hit something, hit training pads.” He advises curtly._

_It’s the best idea anyone’s presented her with in a while._

_The corners of her mouth dare to raise in the flicker of a smile once more and she extends her hands to him again._

_He straps her up, taking a little more time than she deems strictly necessary. The motions are fluid and practiced and it’s something he’s well used to. But there’s something almost ritualistic about this. They prepare each other’s weapons of war with soft and tender strokes, dulling the edges and smoothing the knots. His  skin is warm and strangely soft, considering what he asks of it, against hers._

_He hands her a pair of her preferred fingerless gloves to add a little extra padding to her bruised knuckles once he’s finished. She knows what to do next and they flow seamlessly, swapping places, his hands in her lap as she picks up the tape. Routine. Order. Structure. Something she knows better than her own name. Something familiar that guides her into a well worn rhythm. Something she doesn’t need to think about she can just do. She tugs at the tape and repeats the procedure with him, her hands moving swiftly and efficiently over his, knowing instinctively how tight he likes it to be and what patterns she should follow to best suit his style._

_She’s already calmer when she gets to her feet, rising at the same time he does, both of them ready. He snatches up one of the heavy body length pads that she had been perching on and braces it opposite her._

_They move to the centre of the room, the takes up a strong stance and flicks a short nod in her direction, letting her know he’s ready. The pad and his hold absorb the shock of the flurry of quick and hard punches that land on it. He turns to the side and she reacts, her hands withdrawn back to her body, defensive, her leg swinging into a practiced kick that follows his turn and lands where he knows to place to the pad to catch it._

_He keeps her on her toes, changing his position and the pads height and angle and forcing her to change her fighting style to match it, anticipating one another in a way that would appear to a casual watcher as though they were following a prescribed pattern. But she knows him and he knows her and it works without being predictable. Challenging yet rewarding and exactly what she needed._

_He swaps to smaller hand paddles after a little while. Sweat coats them both. But she can see the soft smile on his lips and in his eyes. He knows this helps. He knows she’s grateful. And so she doesn’t have to say it and he doesn’t have to hear it. They know._

_This is a quicker performance than before. And offers him the chance to counter, forcing her to defend as well as simply change her attacks. It offers more movement across the floor as well, chasing and fleeing then changing tact and pushing back, switching their positions, making them both move and think together._

_They’d had similar training and they’d both studied each other well enough to know their simultaneous partner and opponents favourite moves. And this made them alter their styles. Push boundaries, push limits, step out of comfort zones in order to catch their partner off and force them to do the same._

_They both come to a stop at the same time, breathing hard, their eyes meeting, understanding what comes next. He discards the pads in a corner and settles into stance, his hands raised in front of him, ready. She shifts, her body supple and flowing, settling into the position with a natural ease a part of him still envied._

_They had found the centre of the training mats once more. Both breathing a little harder than when they had started. Their muscles tensed. Sweat coating their skin and plastering their clothes to their bodies. And their eyes locked._

_They swayed and pulsed and moved both in sync with each other and with their own agenda. Circling each other, looking for the tells they now knew. Like a physical poker game. Bluff and call and raise all mixed together with the position of their bodies; the way they moved their feet; the slight flicker in their eyes before they moved._

_They matched each other, a mirrored pair with their own individual style. Equals on a level playing field. Waiting. Baiting. Testing. And they could do this for hours. This mental warfare all conducted behind the eyes in subtle glances and stares, sizing up and studying and understanding. But she’s the one who changes the rules of the game first, springing at him._

_He reacts and instead of blocking or launching a counter attack, he ducks and rolls around to her back, forcing her to turn and anticipate the blow aimed at her head through some innate instinct and through knowing him._

_She catches his punch in her forearm, throwing it aside, her left hand swinging at his ribs, her eyes focussed on his to draw them away but he catches her wrist and tugs her to him. Their bodies crash together and he twists her arms around in front of her, locking her in front of him._

_She drops and sweeps his legs. His reflexes force him to throw his hands out to break his fall and he darts out of the way as she lunges for the spot she left him in._

_They’re facing each other once more. Both on their feet. And their exchange pauses for a moment. Just a moment. He moves forwards this time, feinting with a rough punch to her head while attempting to sweep her legs from under her in revenge for what she had just done to him._

_She jumps up and back, evading both moves in one, he spins into the momentum of his last attacks to use it to his advantage, a rough cut aimed at her neck that she avoids, prompting her into the attack again, moving towards him at a speed that always almost catches him off guard._

_And so they dance. Moving and flowing smoothly across the training room floor. Their moves precise and elegant and controlled. A mixture of pattern and reaction; of training and instinct; of old and new; push and pull; finding a balance in which they can both continue, matched and outmatched in equal measure by the other. Strength and speed and power and precision and impulsiveness with anticipation and they find a strange harmony, a beat and a rhythm that they fall into almost naturally._

_Her eyes find his again, alive and alight with the fire of their back and forth, fixed on her, her face, her eyes, her body, watching her intently, his whole focus, his whole being on her._

_She’s the one who changes the rules of their game again._

_Her anger still pulses through her. Her rage. Her emotion. Her anguish. Her fear. Never forgotten. But always contained. In the back of her mind for when she needed something to tap in to to fuel the extra fire she needed to survive._

_But she can tell he wants her to do more than that. He’s trying to push her into doing more than that. He’s trying to make her relinquish that control, to let those feelings flood her. To let her movements and her style become emotion over training. To release the pent up tension that she’s been working so hard to control for weeks. Now that it’s reached its peak after what happened to Skye. Now that she needs this. She needs this release. She needs to let herself lose control. She needs to be as vulnerable as she ever can be, surrendering to her emotions, allowing them to take her over, for just a moment, to ensure that they don’t consume her._

_And she does._

_And all at once the pitch and the tempo of their dance changes violently. And it no longer becomes a song of lovers and their balance and their harmony and understanding but one of anger and of fear and of fight._

_He reacts to the change, seeing it in her eyes a second before she turns into it. He absorbs as much of it as he can. Her movements become sharper and rougher and faster and she pushes them both to the very edge of what they can handle._

_They become closer. Their dance more contained more intense and concentrated. Her attacks come in much quicker succession, one after the other, hard and relentless and there isn’t time for feinting and diversions, every action aims to elicit a reaction. He counters and reacts and follows her, taking up a position of pure defence, allowing her to work through the rage that boils that through them both that she’s pent up for so long to erupt from her all at once._

_The game changes once more as her movements come from a place of pure emotion and aside from their volatility and unpredictability, they’re easy for him to counter and to turn away and in the end she finds herself with her back to him, her arms crossed over her body, his fingers wrapped around her wrists and she finds that no resistance comes to her and leans down to murmur softly in her ear,_

_“Enough, Melinda. Enough.”_

_She collapses against him. Her body melting against his, folding against his now familiar shape as though it was made to. Her eyes close. They’re both panting hard. She can feel adrenaline surge from her, leeching out of her system and draining her fight and her anger with it._

_It would have left her empty were it not for her fear. Her fear over her Skye. Over losing anyone else. Her upset and her grief at the thought and her guilt, her guilt that she couldn’t protect her, that she couldn’t keep her safe, that here she was, back in the field and she couldn’t do what they had needed her to do, she couldn’t protect them all at all times. The cost could have been any price and she would have paid it if she could but she couldn’t._

_And she feels numb. And she feels hopeless. And she feels so intensely human. Flawed and vulnerable and for a moment she allows herself to be entirely helpless in his arms as his body closes around her._

_She can feel it radiating from him too. That despair that feeling of uselessness. There’s nothing they can do. They’re both fighters, they’re both protectors. Their hands weren’t made to heal they were made to harm. They were made to be shields but not miracles. They can’t fix they can only prevent. And they feel like they’ve failed. Both of them. And now they feel helpless. They had their chance. And their fight is over. There is no war against enemies they can hit, there are no enemies at all. Only death. And that isn’t a foe either of them know how to defend against or attack._

_All they can do now is wait. And wait. Wait for results. Wait for others to help; to heal; to fix. Wait for their failure to be reversed. Wait for orders. Wait for news. Wait for others._

_They have surrendered all control. This is out of their hands now and they hate it._

_She turns. Whether because she wills it or because of a light nudge at her shoulders as his arms lift slightly to allow her to move. In sync once more, understanding the others needs._

_She finds herself pressed against him, his arms around her, hot and soft and safe. Her eyes close. She breathes him in. Sweat and aftershave and something that just reminds her of him. It’s reassuring somehow. Familiar. Something she associates with comfort and trust._

_And it isn’t fixed. It isn’t gone. It’s there. It’s all still there. But it’s understood now. And so is he. They both have a duty to this team, to its members, they both have a weight and a responsibility on their shoulders and they both feel this similarly and can’t express it in front of those they have to protect._

_But with each other. With each other there is an openness. A connection. An understanding. A mutual vulnerability. Sinking in to each other and letting their emotions blend and ripple and turn and be felt and shared together._

_And that helps._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: First AoS fic and my first time playing with these characters so apologies for anything out of place in that respect. I do have some sort of plan for developing this into something longer if anyone wants but at the minute it's sitting at two chapters, the second of which I'll post a little later. Thanks for reading :)


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